Winchesters on Ice
by SupernaturalBaby4Life
Summary: Christmas with the Winchester boys is never easy, but Dean is looking forward to it this year. Back from purgatory, and all he wants is a nice, quiet holiday with Sam-but things go horribly wrong when Sam is taken by the very thing they were hunting. Freezing, helpless, and severely injured, Sam must survive the night, and Dean must find Sam before he freezes- or worse.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so I kind of wanted to do a Christmas time fic concerning the Winchester boys! NO SLASH! But lots of fluff and brotherly love, with a lot of blood and scary stuff. Seriously Hurt! Frozen! Sam and Protective! Comfort! Dean **

**Enjoy and Happy holidays.**

* * *

"_God rest you merry, Gentlemen,  
Let nothing you dismay,  
For Jesus Christ our Savior  
Was born upon this Day.  
To save poor souls from Satan's power,  
Which long time had gone astray.  
Which brings tidings of comfort and joy."_

Dean rolled his eyes at the music crackling through the mall speakers. People were bustling past him, multitudes of brightly colored packages and shopping bags hanging off every available appendage. Reds and greens and blues and yellows and whites blinded him at every turn. He rounded the corner of the food court and nearly collided with a young woman pushing a stroller. Bags hung from the little cart, practically burying the kid.

"Oh," Dean threw his hands up and quickly side stepped. "Sorry about that Miss." He politely smiled.

"Yah, yah, get the hell outta my way." She pushed past him, submerging herself in the hustle and bustle of the mall crowd.

"Well, Merry Frickin Christmas to you, too…" Dean shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. This is why he never understood Sam's obsession with celebrating Christmas. It was a holiday of sales and shopping, nothing more. Sam always went on the usual "it's about family" rant around this time of year, but Dean just tuned him out. It was a stupid holiday and that was that…

Then why was he at the mall shopping for Sam's Christmas present?

_Because, _he told himself,_ Sam will get you something like he does every year, and if you don't have anything to give to him back then you'll look like a total dick. This is purely a defensive maneuver._

Usually, Christmas wasn't a huge thing for the Winchester boys. It never had been growing up, and as they'd gotten older, the holidays just became an excuse for buying and drinking super heavy eggnog. However, the brothers had been away for quite some time, and there weren't exactly snowmen and Elves in Purgatory. Dean felt the need to celebrate this year, even just a little bit. It was their first Christmas back together, and when they had ridden into town, Dean had seen the lights on the mall a mile away. Sam deserved a present, he had figured, and the mall was as good a place to shop as any. Besides, Dean needed to get Sam's mind of the hunt they were on. It was a nasty one, with people disappearing left and right, only to turn up dead days later. Sam had been doing a lot of work, researching all day every day for the past week now. Needless to say, the young man was tense. Den wanted to get him something nice, or at least, useful.

Dean made his way to the "Big and Tall" shop. Sam needed a new suit. His FBI getup was looking a bit worse for wear and what the hell. But, maybe he would get him something nice while he was here that wasn't hunting related. A set of twinkle lights over a Payless store caught his eye. Hmm….Maybe Sam would want a new pair of shoes, or maybe some moccasins. The damn bitch was always complaining that his feet were too cold. Ooh, look in that window! That's a nice sweater, and it would look good on his brother's massive shoulders. Does it come in a navy blue? Oh! Yes it does! Wait, is that a remote controlled helicopter? Dean strolled to the bright kiosk, captivated. He watched the high tech plastic toy launch and maneuver in the air. _SWEET! _Dean's eyes were bright and wide. Maybe this shit wasn't so bad after all…

* * *

Dean may have gotten a little carried away.

He had to put down a few bags in order to retrieve his motel keys from his pocket. He was almost embarrassed at the amount of crap he had gotten. Bags and boxes flooded the back seat of the Impala, and Dean couldn't hold everything at once. He had to make multiple trips just to get everything into the room. After locking the car and finally closing the lime green door. Dean leaned up against the wall and took a breath, a stupid grin stretched across his face. He chuckled quietly, feeling genuinely happy for the first time on a long time. He could just imagine the look on Sam's face Christmas morning, waking up to see all those boxes with his name on them.

Dean sighed and rolled his neck. Time to get to work-but he knew the effort would be worth it on the morning of the 25th. He wrestled with tape, sliced with scissors, and sparred with boxes. After what seemed like an eternity of shiny gift wrap and paper cuts, Dean was finished. Over a dozen packages, with "Sammy" scrawled across them in black sharpie (no, not exactly formal, but he forgot the stupid labels of all things) now rested in a duffel under his bed. Christmas was in three days, So Dean wouldn't have to hide the bag for too long.

Dean checked his watch. It was only 5:30. Sam wouldn't get back from the town archives for another hour at least. Dean grabbed a beer from the fridge and slid into the worn couch, flicking through the channels. He stopped when the familiar characters danced onto the screen.

"_Thumpity Thump-Thump, Thumpity Thump-Thump,_

_Look a Frosty Go."_

Dean would never tell Sam this, but Frosty the Snowman was his favorite Christmas movie. Dean watched and laughed and even started humming along. He snuggled further into the couch cushion, enjoying the warmth blasting from the heater next to the sofa.

It was going to be a great Christmas.

* * *

It was going to be a horrible Christmas.

Sam leaned back in his chair defeated. The cold metal back of the seat pressed painfully into his back. His legs were cramped and sore, and dammit, his feet were cold. He stretched his long arms above his head and gave a huge yawn. Sam rubbed his large, calloused hand across his tired face and down the back of his neck, attempting to get the crick out of his back. It had been a long day, with very few results. He just wanted to go home, eat something tasty, and sleep in a warm bed. Sam stood and cracked his back, letting out a sigh. He was tired, physically and mentally. This thing they were tracking was fast, dangerous, and cruel. People were still disappearing, one every few days, despite the brothers' best efforts. More disappearances mean more dead.

Yah, Merry Christmas.

Sam pulled his coat off the back of the chair and stuffed his arms through the holes. The archives were dusty and dank, but Sam had exhausted everything on the internet and the library. There was nothing in Dad's journal about this kind of thing, nor was there anything in the archives that might point towards a curse or angry spirit. This town was clean, and it was goddamned frustrating.

Sam made his way upstairs and waved goodnight to the Janitor. He walked outside, gasping and grinding his teeth as the bitter winter wind ripped through his jacket. At six o'clock, it was already pitch black outside, and Sam was tempted to just call Dean for a ride back to the motel room. Sam's hand reached into his back pocket to get his cell phone but stopped. There really was no need. He had walked here, he could walk back. It was just cold outside. The walk would warm him up. Sam pulled his hood up and zipped the jacket all the way up to his chin. He set out at a brisk pace, trying to heat up a bit. The street was deserted, save for a few intermittent cars that whizzed past on the slated roads. Snow had begun to fall and Sam was shivering. In the darkness of the evening, the sparse street lamps were his only company. Sam had one hand in his warm pocket and the other on the cold steel of his gun. Some may call him paranoid, but he just called it reasonably precautious.

The only sounds in the quiet of the snow were Sam's boots shuffling over the snowy sidewalk. After about five minutes, Sam saw the diner come into view, signaling the halfway mark to the motel. _See? _He told himself. _Was that so bad? You'll be inside, warm and comfortable in no time. Halfway there…_

Sam never made it home.

* * *

Dean woke with a start, not realizing that he had dozed off. Once he was sure of his surroundings, he calmed. Dean shot a glance to the analog clock in the kitchen. It was quarter of eight. Dean's eyebrows shot up. He must have been more tired than he thought to have napped for three hours. Dean stretched out on the couch, sprawling in every direction before getting sleepily to his feet. He shuffled his way across the carpet, dragging a hand through his short but unruly hair.

"Sammy? Why didn't you wake me up when you got in? And did you get dinner? I left it in the fridge." Dean stuck his head in the bedroom. No one. He checked the bathroom. Empty. Automatically, a pit of dread formed a tight knot in his stomach. Something was wrong. Very, Very wrong. Sam never came home late without at least calling beforehand. Dean hustled out to the kitchen, wrenching open the door to the fridge. Sam's dinner lay untouched on the plate. Scooting over to the table where he had dropped his pack, dean unzipped the larger pocket. Rummaging past the shells, clips, and rock salt rounds, he found his cell phone and hit speed dial.

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"_Riinnnnnggggg…"_

"Hey, _this is Sam. If this is an emergency, call my brother Dean at 475 90-"_

Dean slapped the phone shut. "Dammit, Sam!" He threw his shoes on and grabbed his coat. He had a very bad feeling about this. Dean packed an extra clip into his belt, just in case, and tried calling Sam's cell again.

"Hey, _this is Sam. If this is an emer-"_

"Fuck!" Dean pocketed the phone and jogged to the Impala. It was bitterly cold outside, and the frigid leather of the Chevy was not comforting to his previously toasty ass.

Dean started up the car and rubbed his hands together, already numb. Quickly checking the rearview mirror, he skidded out of the parking lot and pulled onto the snow-dusted road. Dean drove slowly, despite his anxiety and restlessness. But he knew that Fast and Furious was no way to find a missing Sam.

The hunter was halfway to the Archive Storage Facility when he spotted a dark brown lump on the sidewalk. It was covered in a fine sheet of white, but it stuck out on the flat terrain like a sore thumb. Dean pulled over quickly and hopped out of the Driver's side, hustling warily over to the discarded object. He stooped, brushing the snow away with his ungloved hand. Dean froze, and it wasn't from the cold. His eyes went wide and he gripped the edge of the object hard.

Sam's jacket.

Dean let out a shaky breath and stood, the jacket in hand, shaking more snow off. Judging by the good half inch of powder covering the tanned material, Dean could guess the jacket had been lying there for at least two hours.

Not good.

Dean's mouth went dry and he felt his heartbeat speed up. He ran his cold hands over the worn leather, surprised when his fingers caught on the fabric. By the light of a lonely lamppost, Dean stretched out his arms to get a better look at the coat. When he saw, he gasped.

Blood.

So much Blood.

The originally tan material was spattered with dark red splotches, frozen and caked into the cloth. Dean saw what his finger caught on: the jacket was ripped to shreds, giant claw marks crisscrossing across the back of the jacket from one shoulder seam to the other. The slashes were outlined in his brother's blood.

Dean felt bile rise into his throat.

Sam was missing.

Sam was bleeding.

Sam was freezing.

A white-hot rage started the eldest Winchester's chest, ebbing and pulsing to every extremity of his body. He couldn't feel the chill in the air, nor did the howling frigid win bother him. Whatever this bastard was, it was going to die. And If Sam was seriously hurt…or…

"Dammit, Dean. Don't even think about that, you stupid son of a bitch." Dean closed his eyes, not caring if he was talking out loud. He bowed his head and clenched his hands around his brother's shredded jacket with an iron grip. He would find Sam and bring him home if it was the last thing he ever did.

* * *

The first thing Sam noticed was the cold.

Never mind the incessant pounding in his head, or the stinging, unadulterated pain raging and coursing from his shredded flesh. They weren't important. Hell, they were like finger pricks compared to the cold.

Sam was frozen. He knew it, too. He couldn't feel his fingers or his toes, or the majority of his face and arms for that matter. The wind whipped around him, blinding, carrying and throwing snow in his already numb face.

"D-n…" He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. He tried again to call for his brother, but it was useless. Sam tried to pick up his head, but his neck was coated with blood, and was completely frozen to the ground. Sam rolled his eyes in every direction, trying to figure out where the hell he was. He was outside- that was for sure, the only question was where. Minnesota was not a forgiving place in the winter, and pretty much every square inch of forest was identical to the next. Sam wanted to cry-from the pain, from the cold, from the fear, from everything- but the tear drops just froze in his eyes. Sam brought an unfeeling hand up to his face and gritted his teeth at what he saw. His hand was blue-like, Papa Smurf Blue. Not good. Frostbite was deadly, and he knew that if he didn't restore blood flow, he was royally screwed. Sam was frightened, but he knew what he had to do. Preparing himself for the looming pain, Sam took a few quick hard breaths and gritted his teeth. Quickly, he shoved both of his hands into the warmth of his armpits, probably the last section of him that was above forty degrees.

And he waited.

"Ahhh-Jesus-FUCK!" Sam smashed his frozen head back against the snow, cringing at the small blood icicles that stabbed at his scalp. His hands tingled and burned at the new warmth as the dead tissue came back to life. It hurt so badly, so fucking badly! Sam wanted nothing more than to rip his hands out of his shirt and plunge them back into the snow, but he knew that would only do more damage. So, using up every ounce of will power he had, Sam Winchester held his frozen paws in the warmth of his underarms, and squeezed his eyes shut.

After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than five minutes, the tingling and burning subsided to a dull throbbing pulse. Carefully, Sam extracted his previously iced hands from the inside of the plaid button down. He was pleased with what he saw. His hands were still cracked and bleeding, but they were much more of a pinkish color than they had been before. Sam shook his whole body, twisting and kicking, trying to increase blood flow. The wind had died down by now, but the air was still lethally cold. The hunter brushed the layer of white from his soaked pants and shirt, struggling to sit up. He had finally managed to push himself into an upright position, despite the protest from his shredded back, when a wave of dizziness and nausea flooded over him. Sam twisted to the side just in time as steaming hot vomit flooded his nostrils and throat, spewing from every direction it could. He just kept gagging and choking, barely getting in enough oxygen.

When the contents of Sam's stomach were fully on display, steaming in the snow, Sam curled into a ball and stuck his head between his knees. The world was still swimming, and if the pounding in his skull was anything to go by, he figured he must have a concussion. He rocked back and forth, trying to comfort himself the way Dean used to when he was sick. Sam almost managed a smile at the thought of the other Winchester. If Dean were here right now, he would strip off every ounce of clothing he had (Throwing self-respect and heterosexuality to the wind) and give it to Sam, if that meant his baby brother's body temperature would go up by half a degree.

That's why Sam knew that he needed to get up and get moving. Dean would never forgive himself if Sam died.

_He's probably flipping Shit right now, wondering where the hell I am. _Sam paused.

_Jesus Christ, __**I **__don't even know where the hell I am._

Sam gazed upwards at the crystal clear night sky. If it weren't for the fact that he was freezing to death, Sam would have stopped to consider the beauty of the clear winter sky. The stars stood, ever watchful, burning like candles in the black curtain of night. The moon was hidden behind a passing wisp of a cloud, but its silver luminescence still radiated through any and every gap it could find.

Sam's vision was still a little blurry, and his head wasn't exactly completely steady yet, but all the same, he grabbed on to a nearby pine branch and hauled himself to his feet. The moment he was upright, another wave of vomit coursed its way up his esophagus, burning the wall of his throat. Sam hurled it into the tree, watching the steam rise off the pool of stomach acid and mist away into the clear air. He couldn't complain though. Despite how disgusting it was, the vomit was extremely warm, and it left a hot feeling around Sam's icy face.

The young Winchester took one unsteady step, then another, keeping a firm grip on the low hanging branch. When the feeling started to return to his toes, and his balance improved, Sam let go of the tree and ventured from its shadow. The snow was deep, but Sam was tall, and his legs could step over the drifts and banks with ease. He walked for a long time, jogging when he could. The heat his body was producing was keeping him out of the hypothermic state he had woken up in, but just barely, and he was still shivering violently. But Sam kept going. He was determined to work up a sweat and keep it going- keep himself warm. It didn't take long (after all, he is a sweater). Not even ten minutes later, the warm salty liquid was flowing steadily into his eyes, and unfortunately, into the raw and jagged lacerations on his back. The stinging kept him awake and alert, but Sam was suffering. The constant movement was reopening his frozen wounds, and the blood was trickling down into his pants. But he kept going, stopping only to vomit and catch his breath in the frigid air.

If he could survive until dawn, He might be okay.

If he could survive until dawn, Dean would find him.

Sam kept repeating this to himself as he jogged. It was his motivation, his drive to live- his brother needed him, although he would never admit it, but they both knew it. One could not and would not survive without the other, and Sam knew that Dean would be close behind if he should die.

_But enough thinking about that,_ he told himself. _You are not going to die. _

He skirted around an icy patch of rock, trekking fast like a mountain climber.

_You will be fine. You've had worse. This is a walk in the park, a stroll in meadow- you can do it. _

Sam climbed over a fallen log.

_Hell, remember that time in Kentucky when-_

And that's when he heard it-

-A low, primitive growl that sent a spike of fear down Sam's spine. It froze his feet where the stood, and he subconsciously inched his hand towards his holster, only to be met with empty space.

Dammit! He had left his gun in the inside pocket of his jacket!

Sam mentally kicked himself. He always made sure that his sidearm was in its holster—unless of course it had been digging into his leg for 8 hours in that stupid metal chair, so he had finally unclipped it.

But there was no time for self-pity and hindsight. He needed a way to defend himself.

Sam scanned the forest floor and found what he was looking for. He gripped the fallen branch with both hands, spike facing the surrounding darkness. Despite the spike of agony that flowed up his back, Sam went into a defensive crouch, backing up against a crop of boulders to his right. He looked in every direction, peering as hard as he could into the darkness. The growl came again, closer this time. It was no animal growl-that was for sure. Then again, it had been no animal that had attacked him.

Sam remembered the chaos: the beast had lunged, moving so quickly it had been nothing but a silver blur. Its razor claws followed the initial knock-down, ripping him to bits and smashing his skull against the concrete before he's even gotten a good look at it.

Now the beast was back, playing with its food. It had let him think he was free- let him try to escape, but Sam had gotten too far, and the monster decided that he'd had enough amusement, watching his little snack squirm and run. Now, it was dinner time.

Sam felt the cold edge of the boulder press into his back. He crouched lower, waiting for the monster to lunge from the darkness at any second. Sam waited for another growl, anything to give away its position.

Nothing.

Sam wasn't fooled though. He knew it was still out there. So he settled down against the boulder and waited, still as the rock itself.

Still nothing.

A good ten minutes had gone by, and Sam was feeling the cold set into his bones again. He had to make up his mind. Stay here, against the rock and probably freeze to death, or make a run for it, possibly right into the jaws of the waiting beast.

He had to make a choice.

Sam stood, makeshift spear in hand, and looked around once more. The woods were eerily silent, but Sam felt more confident in his combat skills than his survivor-man skills.

Sam Winchester hadn't even taken a step when the wet, hot, rancid breath shot down his collar. A low, guttural growl reverberated behind him. Sam's heart leapt into his throat and adrenaline coursed like wildfire through his veins, but he stayed deathly still, other than the tightening of his fingers around his branch. No doubt, the beast was perched on the very same boulder Sam had been leaning up against this whole time. Sam turned, very slowly, and raised his eyes to the hulking mass above him. It was silhouetted against the moon, turning it into nothing more than a black and deadly shadow.

Sam's scream died in his throat as the beast lunged forward, wrapping its powerful jaws around his waist. Sam shrieked in pure, unadulterated agony as his left hip bone crunched beneath the fangs of the monster. Fresh blood gushed from his abdomen as the monster retracted his teeth, dropping the Winchester to the frozen dirt. Sam hit the ground with a thud, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He was lightheaded from blood loss, and completely incoherent from pain.

"Dean!" he shouted, tears streaming down his face. He just wanted his brother. The monster took a few steps away from its snack, no doubt preparing for a final blow. Sam flailed wildly in the snow, panic overtaking him.

"DEAN!" He cried again into the echoing forest. Sam crawled away from the heaving, panting mass behind him and struggled pathetically to the base of a pine tree, his spear raised. "D-Don't you dare c-come near me, you s-s-son of a b-bitch…" Sam was seeing spots, his vision going black at the edges, but the monster stayed a distance away. Sam was confused. Why didn't it pounce? Why didn't it finish the job? Sam watched in complete disbelief as the shadowy beast retreated further and further away. The monster turned its head one last time before vanishing completely behind the veil of trees, its green eyes almost…laughing?

_Holy shit. _The realization hit Sam like a freight train. _It's playing a game. This is all a game…_

_And I am going to lose._

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW! I live in Connecticut, not fifteen miles outside Newtown, so I would really appreciate it if everyone who reads this says a little prayer before they go to bed tonight. Every Review=1 hug for those in need of hugs this Christmas. You don't even have to review if you don't want to; just send me a blank message, just so I know you care and that everyone is thinking about the poor families here in Connecticut who have lost their loved ones. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, and for the beautiful messages of sympathy and well-wishes for the shooting here in Connecticut. It means a lot. Also, for those of you who sent me such lovely reviews but DON'T HAVE A FANFICTION ACCOUNT FOR SOME REASON! (Yes, that means you "guests") Haha, don't worry, I'm not mad at you…yet) I would also like to thank you for your reviews, and I will respond to them thus, because I always respond to my reviews!**

**Carolyn W: Thank you for your review, it was very lovely and made me feel very happy inside, and thank you for your prayers to our communities here in CT.**

**LH: Thank you for saying my story is awesome. You are awesome as well. And thank you for your thoughts and prayers. 3 **

**Mystery Guest who said "great Story…please update soon": thank you, and yes, as you can see, I have updated. Though whether or not it was soon, I cannot say, because "Soon" is a relative word, meaning in relation to, an adverb that must have a corresponding relationship to a verb, being an adverb. however, in this case, soon should have been followed by a direct object or direct object pronoun, for there to be any relativity at all. (in this case "update"), so to what or whom are you comparing/relating "soon" too? Be it an increment of time, a deadline, etc.? Really you must be more specific. **

**Anyway, in the words of the great Monty Python: ****"GET ON WITH IT!"**

* * *

Sam huddled closer to the tree, clawing desperately at his own skin in a vain effort to pull himself into a tighter, warmer ball.

He was past the point of shivering now, which he knew was a bad sign, but he couldn't care less. Just because he didn't shiver like he was cold, didn't mean he couldn't _**feel **_the cold.

Sam had forgotten what it was like to be warm. His brain and his body didn't recall the sensation of hot soup or a warm fire with thick heavy socks. The only thought, repeating over and over in his head, was how much he hated being cold. But despite the young Winchester's loathing towards the winter weather, he knew the frost forming around his crumpled body was the only thing keeping him alive. If the blood pouring down his back and waist hadn't eventually frozen and clotted in the ice, he would have bled out a while ago. Besides, If the blood loss hadn't knocked him out, the pain sure would have.

Sam's hip was on fire, and the puncture wounds around the splintered bone had their own pulse. The throbbing and burning were excruciating, but bearable. Again, he owed his thanks to the bitter cold. It had numbed his wounds, lessening the pain.

Starting to cough, Sam inclined his head, trying to sit up. Mustering his little remaining strength, he started to pull himself up into a full sitting position, but the moment any pressure was placed on his left hip, his eyes watered and his legs gave out. He landed with a solid thud and a gargled scream passed through his clenched lips. His hip was broken, shattered beneath the immense power of the beast's gnashing jaws.

Sam whimpered when he shifted his weight to the side, trying to relieve the stress on his left side. The pain shooting up his body was agonizing, and left him delirious…he shuddered to think about how much it would hurt if his nerves weren't frozen.

He knew that there was no way he would survive the night out here unsheltered and injured. If Sam was going to last until morning, he would need to get up and move, and keep moving. The thought made him cringe, and fresh tears welled up in his eyes. But he knew what he had to do.

He had to get up.

"_This is going to hurt like a bitch..."_

In one swift movement, Sam gripped the pine branch nearest him and hoisted himself into a full stand, pressure distributed equally onto both legs.

Big mistake.

"FUCK!" Sam screamed and grabbed his side, the pain blinding him. He fell back against the tree, sliding down the rough bark until he was flush with the ground once again. Dots danced around his vision and he felt the warm veil of unconsciousness creep towards him. The pain was ineffable- an electric saw, jackhammer, red-hot poker, all jabbing through his hip and repeatedly stabbing into the bone. The idea of unconsciousness got better every second, and as it approached, the pain started to fade. The wave was comforting him, ebbing him towards sleep. It was so inviting, so refreshing and cozy, Sam wanted nothing more than to throw himself into its warm embrace and stay there…

"_No, Sam."_ He told himself adamantly, and he felt the veil shrink away, like a cringing animal. _"You know you can't do that. You know you can't go."_

Sam shook his head, the icy, bloody locks whipping his unfeeling cheeks. He tried to clear his head.

"_Sam, you have to open your eyes. You have to keep moving. Come on. It'll be easy I promise."_

"_No…I don't want to …I don't care…I just need the pain to stop…" _Sam was exhausted-beyond exhausted. The pain, the cold, everything, just layered on top of the fatigue. He was done.

"Sammy?" This time, the voice was his brother's. It startled Sam so much his eyes shot open, thinking his brother was really there. Tears bit at his eyes when he saw no one. He really was going crazy out here.

"_Sammy, c'mon, man. Get up and move your lazy ass."_ Sam smiled as he drifted off to sleep. If anything, the sound of his brother's voice was more like a lullaby than a motivator at this point.

"_Dean…I'm so tired…"_

"_Sam, I know. But Please, Sam. Please don't leave me…Please…" _ Sam's eyebrows furrowed.

"_Dean? I would never leave you. You know that…not on purpose, anyway."_

Dean's voice in his head suddenly grew angry. "_Well, then Sam, what the hell do you call this? I gave you everything, everything you ever wanted. I would die for you, you know that, and I know that you would die for me. But how about, just this once, you try and LIVE for me Sammy? Why don't you live?!"_

Sam's eyes fluttered open as his brother's voice echoed in his frozen skull.

Live.

If he stopped, he would sleep, and if he slept, he would die. Easy as that. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

He blinked hard once, then again. He needed to stay awake. Sam pulled himself up, not bothering to hold back the screams and tears at this point. He was trying to survive. It didn't matter if he cried. He managed to get himself into a hunched over standing position before long. Sam still had one iron grip on his spear, and he used it partly as a walking stick. The crippled hunter set out from underneath his pine tree, gasping at the bitter winds that drove hard through his clothing. He would walk about ten feet in the snow drifts, then stop, sweating and trying to catch his breath. Sam felt warmer now, for sure, but he wasn't out of the woods just yet…literally.

So for now, he kept walking.

* * *

Sam almost cried in relief when he saw a clearing up ahead. No more jagged rock outcroppings to maneuver around-no more fallen logs to trip over. Sam stepped into the clearing, emerging from the cold shroud of trees. He limped carefully down the graded bank and hopped to the flat surface. All of his weight was on his right leg now, which was starting to fatigue and cramp up. After all, while it wasn't severely damaged, his right side was still bloody and bruised.

Sam was halfway across the flat field when he stopped, mouth going dry and heart rate picking up to dangerous levels.

What was that sound?

At first, he feared it was the monster coming back for him. But he listened closer this time, closing his eyes in desperation, pleading to God that he wasn't just imagining things.

There it was again.

It was real.

The hum of an engine grew louder and louder in the distance, closing in on Sam's location. He limped and stumbled, blind to the cold and the pain, in what he guessed to be the direction of the road. But Sam, though driven by his will to survive, was still very slow. He was halfway across the snow packed stretch of land when headlights came into view.

"W-Wait!" he choked out as the lights grew brighter. His heart fluttered, and tears flooded from his eyes. Pleading and panic overtook him.

"_I have to be saved. He has to see me. I have to get out. Please get me the hell out! Please don't leave me here!"_

"WAIT! PLEASE, OH GOD, PLEASE!" Sam dropped to his knees, ignoring the white hot pain shooting through his left side. He wailed, and moaned, begging for the driver to see him. The headlights grew closer, the lights illuminating the snow packed road not one hundred yards from Sam's defeated body. All he could do was yell and hoist his hands above his head. That's all he could try-all he had left.

The actual car came into view, too dark to see in the pitch black of the night. Sam's throat constricted and he let out one final scream- a scream of desperation and rage and pain so loud, that it echoed off the trees and bounced through the mountainside.

The car swayed on the road and skidded to a stop next to the guardrail.

And the driver's door swung open.

* * *

The back roads were dangerous at this time of year, never mind at this time of _**night**_! Dean was hunched forward in the driver's seat of his baby, concentrating with fervor at the road in front of him. The snow was blinding, and the headlights only illuminated about 20 feet in front of him. But despite the frigid outside temperatures, the incessant clicking of the Legos in the vents and the awful visibility, Dean kept driving, as he had been for six hours straight.

Dean had driven past every house in every neighborhood, in almost every county within a twenty mile radius. He had knocked on doors and gone to the police station, flashing his FBI identification and his brother's photo. But still, to no avail.

It had been hours ago that the familiar knot of dread had settled in his stomach. The chances of finding Sam were slim, and decreasing by the hour. Dean's last hopes rested here-here in these cold, dark, godforsaken woods.

Dean drove slowly past the frost covered sign on the side of the road, struggling to make out the white letters against the ice. Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't want to leave the heated interior of the Impala, but he needed to at least know where the hell he was.

Dean zipped up his coat and took a deep breath of the warm air in the car. He opened the door quickly and swung out, boots planting in the snow. The wind and chill of the night assaulted his senses, making his eyes water and his face prick. He quickly slammed the driver's side door shut, careful not to let the heat escape. He wanted it there when he got back, dammit.

Christmases in Minnesota weren't exactly warm, don't ya know.

"Sonnofabitch, its cold." He stuttered, burying his chin further into his collar. The knot of dread only grew tighter at the thought of his poor Sammy outside, alone and frozen, in the snow. He had to find him, and soon.

With a gloved hand, Dean stretched on his toes to bang the snow and ice from the road sign. He had to jump to reach the top. He couldn't help but wish Sam were here to do it for him.

"Hell, that moose could do this sitting down!" Dean grumbled, then stopped. He felt the beginning of tears burn his eyes. He might never get to tease his brother again.

"_Dammit, Dean. This is not a good moment to be on your period. Shut up and man up. Sam is fine._"

"He is fine, and you will find him, because that is your job." Dean muttered the last bit under his breath. He shook his shoulders and clenched his jaw, the tough guy façade a shield, even when he was alone.

But that was how he dealt, and if that got him through this, then okay. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Dean took a step back from his handiwork and read the sign:

**Deciduous Forest Lake**

**2 Miles**

Dean nodded and headed back to the car. He thrust the door open and jumped in, slamming it shut again behind him. He relished in the heat, and stuck his face in front of the vent. He gave a violent shake, and straightened, nose dripping from even that short span of time outside. The temperature was dropping by the hour, and Sam needed to be found now. Sunrise was in less than three hours, and temperatures would hit their low right before dawn. If Sam was out there, Dean was his only hope, and he was on a tight schedule.

Dean put the Chevy in gear and rolled out of the snowdrift, back onto the deserted road. He cursed silently at the ever growing layer of snow dusting the ground. Dean hadn't put on snow tires yet, and he doubted the plows would be out here at this time of night. He saw another green sign a ways up ahead, no doubt signaling the one mile marker for the lake entrance. Maybe there would be a clearing Dean could unload his gear in and hide the car. He planned to hike through the woods all night if that's what it took.

Dean's headlights shone brightly on roadside rock walls, illuminating every snowflake that passed between the bulb and the bushes. Visibility was improving, and Dean thought he could even see the lookout on the lakeside, an open area for several cars to park. Still, the night was dark, and the snow was relentless, so Dean remained leaned forward, his back aching from the hours of focused, cramped driving.

And that's when he heard it.

It was faint, granted, but a sound nonetheless. It startled Dean, and nearly sent him spinning into the bushes. For several minutes, he waited. He listened intently for it to come again, but heard no repetition. Anxiously shrugging it off as his mind playing tricks, he sped up. Dean didn't like the forest-it gave him the creeps. He felt as if he were being watched. It was almost as if something were waiting for him, or maybe even-

"Aaaaahhhhhh! Eeeaaannnn!"

Dean's ears perked up, and he slowed the car. It sounded like a wounded animal howling, no words were distinguishable, only basic vowel sounds. Dean listened again, his heartbeat speeding up and raw determination setting into his brain. He couldn't get his hopes up, he knew. Most likely, it was some animal, like a wolf. But still, a small voice nagged at his brain.

_Check, Dean. You need to be sure._

Dean nodded in agreement and rolled the Impala forward into the clearing, giving himself a full line of sight onto the frozen lake. He peered hard into the darkness, and the surrounding bank. He saw nothing.

Hopes dashed, despite his best efforts, Dean was about to turn the car around, when the scream came again.

Loud.

Painful.

Distinct.

Familiar.

"WAIT! PLEASE, OH GOD, PLEASE!"

Dean hit the brakes harder than he ever had in his life. He nearly crashed into the guardrail, Chevy spinning on the ice. Dean threw himself out of the car, nearly stumbling over the edge and sliding down the incline.

"Sammy? SAMMY?" Dean shouted into the snowfall, not sure where to run, where to go, where to look-all he knew is that his brother was here, maybe even right in front of him, and he needed his help.

"SAMMY? SAM! TALK TO ME, BUDDY. WHERE ARE YOU?" Dean shouted, nearly in tears, from the edge of the frozen waters. The ice wasn't too thin around the shore, but he wasn't about to go testing it. He hoped to God that Sam wasn't on the lake somewhere.

Dean desperately sprinted across the bank, shouting. His cries received no response, and his heart started to drop, hope going dimmer with every passing second, until finally…

"DEAN!" followed by a guttural groan and cry so loud, Dean figured Sam must be dying. Forgetting his fear of the ice, Dean landed heavily on the lake, slipping and sliding onto the frozen waters. He looked frantically, eyes hurting from the strain.

There.

A crumpled, heaving, Sam-Sized lump was on the ice. Dean's heart jumped into his throat. Sam was moaning and whimpering, his face sickeningly blue and bloody.

"OH MY GOD, SAM!" Dean sprinted faster than he knew he could. "Sam? Sam, can you hear me, buddy? Sammy?!" Dean's voice was panicked, his chest heaving and his hands shaking. He was so close, closing in on his brother. Soon they would be in the Impala, most likely on the way to the hospital despite Sam's imminent protests. Dean was forty, thirty, twenty feet away, Sam was actually smiling, and tears of joy and relief were leaking down his frozen face.

* * *

Sam watched his brother run towards him."D-n..." Sam's voice was small and frail, and barely audible from such a distance. Sam smiled to himself. He must sound and look like crap. But Sam didn't care; his brother was here to save him, just like he'd known he would. Sam opened his eyes to see Dean closing in on him.

Dean couldn't have been more than twenty feet away when the shadow appeared behind him.

Adrenaline and fear coursed through Sam's icy veins. "DEAN!"

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and spun around, catching the look of absolute horror in his brother's frozen, bloody face before looking behind him. "Sam? What's the-"

Dean was silenced by a massive paw smacking him hard across the face. Dean spun down onto the ice, dazed and bloody, cheek ripped from the powerful claws. He spit blood and watched the droplets of red stain the ground around him. Instinct took over and he crawled to his feet, gun drawn. The beast was a massive hulking clump of fur and claws, smelling of rancid flesh. Blood stained its silver muzzle-no doubt his brother's. That thought sent white hot rage spiking through Dean's fingers, and before he could stop himself, Dean fired a round straight at the monster's head. The beast swerved quickly to the side, but not quick enough to outrun a bullet. The round pierced its shoulder, sending it stalking backwards with a clumsy thud as its own blood dirtied the ice. The monster gave a great shriek and bristled, stalking closer to Sam.

"Oh No you don't." Dean fired another bullet towards the creature, determination obvious in his jaw. He didn't know how to kill it, but emptying his gun into its face was a good place to start.

The wolf-like beast moved like a shadow, creeping and dodging, surprisingly light on its massive, razor-claw feet. However, the ice did not think the monster to be light on its feet at all. A fact that did not go unnoticed to Dean Winchester.

A light bulb went off in Dean's head. He had to get the beast away from his comatose brother as soon as possible, He could never make an escape fireman-carrying Sam. He couldn't outrun this thing, never mind with that moose on his shoulders.

"Hey you big ugly son of a bitch!" The monster shot him cold, steely eyes and snarled, but continued to creep towards Sam. This thing wanted to finish what it had started. Dean's eyes danced back and forth between the monster and his brother squirming helplessly on the cold ground.

"I said, HEY YOU BIG UGLY FUCKING SHE-WOLF!" Dean announced. The beast snapped at him, but chose to ignore any further remarks.

But don't worry, Dean had a Plan B.

BANG! One round straight into the monsters hip.

"ROOOOOAAAAARRRRRRRR!" the beast twirled around, screaming as the blood spattered out of the wound. It moved too fast for Dean to be able to land another direct hit in between the eyes.

The monster glared at him and began to advance towards Dean this time. Dean smiled. Success.

"Sorry about that, beautiful, but a man likes to be listened to when he's talking!" It snapped, growling and clenching its powerful muscles. Dean's throat went dry, but Sam was safe…for now.

"Anyway as I was saying," Dean smirked, only agitating the beast further, "You are one ugly S.O.B., did anyone ever tell you that?" It growled, a low menacing tone that made Dean's skin crawl, but he stayed in character, backing ever closer to the grey slush of ice in the center of the lake.

"I bet nobody asked you to prom, am I right? Really you need to learn to let these things go! High school does not define who you are for the rest of your life…well, unless you're awesome like me." Dean smiled wryly as the creature gave a low rumble and snarled; teeth bared as its fury become apparent on its face. Dean raised his shotgun in one swift motion and landed a burning salt round underneath its collarbone. It squealed, jumping and whining, then settled back down. It was bleeding out of several wounds now, and let's just say our wee beastie was not a happy camper.

"Hey, I warned you not to talk when I'm talking. Don't say I'm not fair." Dean's smirking tone dropped to a bone chilling level, and he stared the creature down. "But I'll tell you what's not fair. What you did to my brother." Dean's eyes flashed quickly to the ice beneath the beast's feet.

Perfect.

Dean shouldered his shotgun once more, and the beast cringed, thinking Dean meant to shoot it again.

BANG!

When the shot emptied into the ice, the monster twitched its muscle, pulling back its bloody lips to reveal its tusks-like fangs. It was smirking at him. He had fired his last shot, and he had missed.

Dean's face was stoic. "Think again, bitch."

A crack louder than snapping wood, louder than a gunshot, resonated through the air, bounding and flying off of every surface, echoing back into their eardrums at a volume so high, Dean cringed. The ice beneath them both gave way, snapping and splitting, and the last thing Dean saw before the black waters engulfed him was Sam, one weak hand stretching towards his older brother.

And then Dean sank.

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW! I would like to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter and sent their condolences for the residents of Newtown. Thank you all! And thank you to everyone who reviewed! You made me smile, and to everyone who favorite and followed. It means a lot, and I was surprised with the great feedback I'm getting. Hope you liked the second chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for everyone who reviewed! I was not expecting such great feedback! I love you guys so much :D Now, because, as I already said, I HAVE to respond to ALL reviews, and still some people continue to not just go and get themselves a FanFiction account *hem-hem* I must hereby respond to all you pesky guests who send me such lovely reviews ;)**

**Sarah: Thank you so much! I thought it was awesome too! Haha keep reviewing!**

**PS: sorry for the cliffhangers, guys. I know I frustrate you all, but it's my style! **

* * *

The lake was black. The water grabbed at Dean's clothing, pulling him under. He fought desperately to climb back to the surface, but already, the cold numbed his limbs and assaulted his senses.

Oh, how it was cold.

The water stabbed at him like a thousand knives, burrowing deep into his skin. He gasped from the agony and shock, only to have the frigid waters invade his mouth. Dean thrashed wildly in the lake, unable to tell up from down. The pain was blinding, and his heavy coat weighed him down, but still he scrambled in every direction, searching desperately for the hole in the ice.

When Dean had fallen through the surface, the jagged ice had ripped long cuts in his legs and arms. The dark red of his blood only further added to the midnight hue of Dean's surroundings. The wounds stung and throbbed as they were flooded with the cold lake water, but Dean was too focused on finding the surface.

"_Air!"_ his body screamed. "_Need…AIR!_" his lungs were burning, and they were spasming from lack of oxygen. Dean's heartbeat was deathly slow, and his eyes flitted desperately in every direction, looking helplessly for the ice. He paddled and thrashed, kicking towards what the hoped to be the surface.

"_AIR!"_ Dean's frozen hands stopped thrashing, and instead reached for his throat, begging himself to hold on just a few more seconds. He knew the moments he inhaled it would be over.

"_Just a few more feet, Dean, just a few more feet and then you'll find the ice."_ Dean kicked as hard and fast as he could and felt his oxygen starved heart flutter when he made contact with something hard.

"_Ice? Is it the ice?"_

Dean swept his hands around, trying to feel for the ice. Instead, his fingers sunk into thick mud and Lake Weed.

It was a rock.

He was upside down.

Dean couldn't take it anymore. He had to breathe; he had to open his lungs. Dean felt his throat convulse once more, before unclenching and desperately inhaling, searching for the air it craved. The subzero water rushed into his lungs, filling his chest with its icy tendrils. Dean thrashed and spasmed in a last few valiant attempts, and then went completely still. Dean was simply suspended in the lake. He watched through unfocused eyes as the last few bubbles escaped his mouth. They danced towards the surface.

"_Those assholes," _he cursed at the little pockets of air floating nonchalantly towards the surface that Dean so desperately craved. But, he really didn't crave it anymore. He didn't crave **anything** anymore. He didn't feel cold, nor did he feel afraid. There was nothing to be afraid about.

Dean sank in the water, feeling himself settle at the bottom. The mud was soft and comfortable, and he felt himself smile when a small fish swam by. The water didn't seem so cold now. Matter of fact, it was practically warm. Everything around him was beautifully still in the winter, and so quiet. The undercurrent at the bottom was like a mother rocking her babe to seep. The weeds caressed his cheeks, and the minnows swam between the rocks around him. Everything was slow and steady, nothing was frightening. There was an order to things here- a natural order that made everything work together, but no one was in a hurry. The calm was astounding, and Dean felt himself relax. He could stay here for a long time. It wouldn't be so bad. Dean's eyes closed as the upheaved soil settled around him. Dying? No, he wasn't dying. It felt more like falling asleep…

* * *

"D-n?" Tears trailed down Sam's frozen cheeks as he watched the water settle. Merely seconds ago, his brother had been standing there, surefire and gung-ho, and now…

Now he was gone.

The lake had eaten him-him and the beast. Sam had somehow willed his meek and useless body to move, and now he lay, beaten, on the edge of the hole in the ice. It had been over a minute, now. Dean couldn't last much longer, Sam knew.

Twenty more seconds passed.

Sam scooted closer to the edge. How easy would it be to just fling over the edge and settle into the murky waters? The pain would stop. He would be with Dean.

Sam took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

"_No, you know you can't. You can't give up on Dean. He didn't give up on you."_

There was that pesky internal voice of his again.

"_But…he's gone. He's dead, he has to be."_

"_Is that what your minds tells you?"_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, tears increasing. It was a silent yes. He begged for the voice to just let him sit here and wallow, and not feel so guilty, but it continued.

"_Sam?" _Sam gasped and tears fell faster. It was Dean's voice again, just as it had been in the woods. "_What does your heart tell you?"_

Sam paused, and then wiped away the tears with his shaky hand.

He swallowed.

He took a deep breath.

And he rolled.

* * *

Sam's eyes shot open as the lake enfolded his body. The cold was overpowering, and completely cruel. He had thought he couldn't be any colder- He was wrong. Sam pushed away his own thermal shock and gazed frantically around the lake for Dean. The light passing through the ice was pathetic and barely illuminated ten feet past the surface, but it was better than nothing. Sam swam away from the only clear beacon of light beneath the hole. He ignored the horrific grinding of his pelvis as he searched. Dean couldn't be far away, and the lake at its deepest was thirty feet. Sam paused every few yards, suspended in the frigid water, and glanced around. He had only been under the water for about twenty seconds, but he knew that was another twenty seconds Dean was without air.

Sam paused again and swept the area with his eyes. Every passing second, he grew less hopeful. He was about to continue on when a fleck of something silver caught his eye. Sam tentatively swam closer. He reminded himself that the beast was down here too, somewhere. The thought of silver made Sam shuddered as he recalled the shining fur of the animal while it ripped apart his flesh and bones.

The silver, however, was small. And as Sam approached it, he became less wary. It was a small silver band settled on the bottom. He reached for it.

When his long outstretched fingers brushed against the shiny metal, a very thin layer of sediment resting on top of it brushed away from the current. Sam almost gasped, remembering in the nick of time that he was underwater.

The silver was a ring. And that ring was attached to a finger, which was attached to a hand. Sam flipped, bringing his good leg closer to the hand. He gave a powerful kick, sending a huge current of water sweeping over the rest of the bottom. Sediment went flying, revealing a frozen and unconscious Dean.

"DEAN!" Sam screamed into the lake. Bubbles erupted from his mouth, and Sam silently cursed himself for wasting precious oxygen, but Sam was too busy yanking his brother up off the ground to care. Dean was like a rag doll, fully suspended and unmoving. Tears welled in Sam's eyes and immediately dissipated into the water. He could save him. He just needed to get him out of here.

Sam grabbed his brother by the torso and kicked off a nearby rock with his good leg, sending them both shooting up towards the surface. Sam pulled Dean's body towards the faint column of light-which was almost impossible to see for those who didn't know it was there. Sam was kicking and swimming with a fierce passion, but he was starting to feel the effects of his submersion. Sam's limbs were not cooperating in the water, and his brain was going fuzzy. His lungs were in pain, and his throat was clenching from the effort of not opening. But he kept one thought and one though only in the forefront of his mind: Save Dean. And that was enough.

Kick after kick, Sam neared the hole in the ice. He was determined, and the blood flow in his muscles actually felt good. Swimming was much less painful than walking, he decided, and he was thankful that Dan hadn't fallen off a cliff or something like that. Sam watched with screaming lungs and blackened vision as he neared the ice. Yards…Feet….inches…

"HUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHH! GAAAASSSSPPP!" Sam burst through the hole, sucking in air like there was no tomorrow. He coughed and sputtered and just breathed. He could have rested there forever, his head against the ice, just taking in sweet oxygen, but he knew that there was one person who needed it more than he did.

"Dean!" He coughed out, yelling into the blue and unconscious face of his still silent brother. Sam shook him and slapped his back, trying desperately to get him breathing again from their current position, but when it became apparent that wasn't going to work, Sam wasted no time. Using his massive arms, Sam hauled himself out of the water and Slid Dean out behind him. It was fucking freezing up here, but there must be a God, because the biting wind had stopped.

At least they had that going for them.

Sam had been drilled in CPR since before he could walk, and immediately had Dean on his back and his airway opened. Sam checked for a heartbeat, and let out a small whimper when he found nothing.

"Damnit, Dean. You are one stupid son of a bitch!" Sam yelled. He placed his massive hands one on top of each other and found Dean's sternum beneath his button down. He started chest compression, barely even flinching at the pain and weariness of his own body.

"You-"_compression,_ "Are such," _compression,_ "an ASSHOLE!" _compression._

Sam finished the round of thirty and went in for two breaths.

Sam did CPR for about two minutes, alternating between chest compressions and breaths. He was losing hope, but knew that he couldn't stop. Sam was about to slap his brother.

"Wake up, damn you!" Sam screamed into the night. He gave compressions harder and faster, not caring at the bruising his brother was going to have when he woke up...if he woke up.

"If you don't get up right now and call me a bitch, or a sasquatch, or tell me to quit my whining or stop eating rabbit food, I'll…I'll…" Sam sat back on his heels.

What was he going to do?

Kill him?

Sam started to cry. Not little tears of helplessness, or of pain, like he had been since he'd gotten into this whole mess. Real, raindrop tears. They rolled down his face and the last small flame of hope in his body extinguished.

"DEAN!" He cried out, and he slumped forward, wracking sobs coursing through his broken body. In a flash, his pain turned to rage. Rage at the monster, rage at the world, and rage at himself. Sam clenched his hands so tight that his fingernails cut into his palms. With a quick, powerful motion, he brought one first down onto Dean's still chest, pounding with all the force he had. Then, he whacked him with the other.

"DAMMIT!" Sam slumped fully onto the ground, wanting nothing more than to die. His brother was gone, and it was his fault. Sam closed his eyes and spread his arms. He wanted the cold to take him; he wanted to die here with his brother's corpse. He wanted nothing more than to end it all, and give a big Fuck You to Destiny. He didn't care anymore…nothing mattered.

That's when he heard the spluttering coughing and vomiting next to him, a forceful gagging followed by rapid, wheezing breaths. Sam shot up, letting out a hiss when he jarred his hip. He'd almost forgotten about that…

Sam's eyes were round as saucers, despite the red puffiness from crying. "D-Dean?" Sam stared at this older brother, now sitting upright, and coughing up water from his chest cavity. "DEAN?!" Sam grabbed the other cold man's torso, clinging to him for dear life.

"Oh my god, Dean." Sam smiled into his brother's shirt, unable to let go of him despite the older man's protests.

"Jesus H. Christ, Sammy. I'm fine, will you relax? No chick flick moments," Dean sputtered. He gave a few more coughs then winced. His chest was killing him-it felt like he had a broken rib or something. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yah, Dean?" Sam still hadn't lifted his head out of his brother's shoulder.

"I…I thought I heard you…," Dean pulled Sam off to look into his eyes, now puffy from tears of relief. "Did you call me an asshole?"

Sam just laughed.

* * *

Dean checked the rearview mirror for the hundredth time that minute and smiled. His brother was sleeping behind him, curled up in the mountain of fleece blankets and hot water bottles. The heat was up to full blast, and thank God Dean had left the car running, or else they both would have frozen to death.

Dean remembered waking up on the ice. It had been cold, dammit. Beyond cold, and water was spewing up his throat. Sam had just stared like an idiot. Recalling the look on Sam's face made Dean chuckle.

Soon after, Sam had passed out. Simply fainted, right there on the ice. Dean couldn't blame the kid. He had obviously been on Death's door when Dean got there, never mind after he jumped into a frozen lake with a broken hip, concussion, and severe blood loss to save his drowned brother. Dean shook his head and sighed. Sam was stupid to jump into the water like that. He could have gotten himself killed.

Dean checked the rearview mirror one more time.

But, then again, Dean was glad he had.

After Sam had swooned like a little girl, Dean had to carry him back up the bank, which was no small feat. Sam isn't exactly a light weight.

Dean couldn't put him in a fireman's carry because of his hip, so he had had to carry him damsel-in-distress style, like a husband carrying his wife over the threshold. Dean had scoffed, but figured that Sam had put aside his heterosexuality to give him mouth-to-mouth; Dean might as well carry him.

Dean, of course, wouldn't admit how absolutely terrified he had been when Sam had swooned and collapsed onto the ice like a bag of potatoes. Dean had pulled himself over, shaking his brother's shoulder, begging him to get up. Dean had been so afraid-afraid that his brother's final act to save Dean would be the death of him. Dean would never recover from the guilt if that had happened.

So instead, Dean had hauled his ass off the ice and carried him the football field's length up rocky terrain to the waiting Impala. True to his word, Dean warmed him up. He stripped them both of the wet clothes and got fresh laundry from their duffels in the backseat. Dean had stood outside of the car, freezing his naked ass off, while he bundled Sam into all the winter clothes they had. Boxers, pants, sweat pants, two layers of socks, mittens, beanies, undershirt, T-Shirt, over shirt, button up, Fleece Sweater, winter coat- Literally, everything. Dean only wore the necessities. He had on Dry socks, mittens, jeans, and a very warm shirt and sweater. He had left the duffels under the heat vent in the car, a very smart move on his part. All the clothes felt fresh out of the dryer.

Of course, there was one problem with that. It warmed Sam up…and all the frozen tissue.

Dean, of course, had to hold Sam down so he didn't hurt himself when the feeling came back to his limbs. Dean knew that Sam had frostbite, though it wasn't as severe as it could have been. Putting the warm clothes on him was definitely good, but it had to hurt like a bitch. Sam had screamed and tried to strip himself, even in his unconsciousness, but Dean had held him firmly. Dean himself had had to put up with the horrible tingling and swelling sensation in his fingers and toes, but he was able to just ignore it. The same could not be said for Mr. Snow Miser in the backseat.

Dean checked the mirror again, smiling at the small snores escaping Sam's fort of blankets. He pulled over slightly and put the car in park. Reaching backwards, Dean pulled aside the edge of the blanket so he could see Sam's face. It was still obviously frozen, but the blue had given way for a bit more pink. Dean nodded, turned around and put the car in gear. About halfway back to town, Dean heard the chattering. Sam was shaking violently, to the point where his muscles were spasming. Dean clenched his teeth, hating the whimpers of his cold baby brother, but knowing that this was a good thing. He was shivering, his body was responding to the cold, and this was way healthier than just sitting there freezing.

Dean was right of course. After about ten more minutes of chattering, the noise died away. At first, Dean panicked, thinking that Sam had stopped breathing or had just died. He swung the car over to the guardrail and launched into the backseat, only to find Sam sleeping peacefully, an actual bright pink creeping into his cheeks from the warmth of the car. Dean calmed himself and continued driving. By the time they hit the motel, Sam was actually sweating from the heat blasting into his face. Dean ran inside, grabbed his emergency duffel, and slipped back into the driver's seat. He searched in the bag and found their fake ID's and health insurance, along with the credit cards.

Dean chuckled quietly to himself, picturing Sam's face when he woke up in a hospital bed. He wouldn't be happy, needless to say. Dean shrugged

"Oh well, Sammy," he murmured. "You need a doctor, and I don't care what you say. You're going to the hospital." Dean took the exit off the interstate, heading for the city. He saw the sign, and nodded. Three more miles to the hospital.

"They're gonna give you shitty food, brother. They probably won't even have any attractive nurses, either. And I'm not sneaking you any pie, either. Pie is for smart people who don't go and get themselves thrown into the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm and force their big brother to save their girly little ass." Dean nervously checked the rearview mirror.

"Those docs will dope you up, and this time I'm gonna get your morphine experience on camera, Sammy boy." Dean's laugh was forced, and he could feel himself waiting for a reply from Sam. He had given him a million opportunities to rip him one, or crack a snazzy comeback. But, of course, none came. There was nothing but the rattle of Legos in the vent and the highway beneath them.

Dean just drove faster.

* * *

Meanwhile:

The water dripped off his mangy fur, cascading into the snow. The beast licked at his wounds and snarled thinking of the two hunters. They would die. Soon. And painfully. The monster shook himself off once more, sending water sprinkling in every direction. He gazed back at the hole he had punched into the ice, clawing at the surface to get out of the water. It was a good thing he had stayed in this form, with these powerful muscles and razor sharp claws-otherwise, getting out of the lake would not have been so easy.

The beast clenched his eyes shut and bared its teeth as its skin dripped off, dropping in steaming liquid piles to the snow. He fur and blood oozed off of the form, and bones and muscles began to realign as the monstrosity adapted into another shape.

Only minutes later, a man, naked and feral looking, emerged from the pile of animal flesh that lay melting and moist on the frozen tundra.

He glanced back to the road as he heard the infamous Impala rumble away, no doubt carrying the duo to safety.

His vision went red as he thought of the other human -the one with the spiky hair and funny jacket…Dean, yes, that was his name. He had never met the Winchesters in person, but he could only assume which was which. This Dean had ruined everything. Sam had been his for the taking: wounded, frozen, so beautifully terrified- and then the short one got in the way.

This was not part of the game.

And he NEVER lost the game.

* * *

**I'm trying to think of a name for our beastie/man, here. Any suggestions? Let me know, and please don't say Larry or something. By the way, yes, he is a shifter, but a special kind. I will elaborate in the next chapter (and also give him/it a name)**

**PLEASE REVIEW! Did you guys like it? Do you like where I'm going with this? Let me know.! Oh, and MERRY CHRISTMAS! Hopefully, a murdering Santa clause won't come down your chimney like that one time on Supernatural…. ;) Have a great break, everyone! Signing off for now! See you in 2013! 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**Happy New Year everyone! Thank you all for the lovely reviews, and I'm sorry I didn't update sooner. I was braving the great white north! (Aka Canada. It's cold. Super cold.) I was almost as cold as our poor Sammy here ;) Enjoy chapter 4!**

* * *

Sam thought he must be dreaming. He was snuggled up in blankets and layers, and he could feel the fleece rubbing against his frostbitten cheek. He wasn't in pain, so far as he could tell, and he wasn't cold. There was no way that this was real. This must be some last minute fantasy of a dying brain, or his life flashing before his eyes.

Yah, something along those lines.

So he waited. He waited for it to end. He waited for a bright light, or Tessa, or something…anything! But nothing came.

So, he waited some more. He was almost glad, truth be told. Not only because he hadn't died yet, but because this alternate dimension/subconscious universe was toasty, and he liked the feeling of the heavy wool socks on his feet. Maybe waiting here wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

The waiting was fucking killing him.

Dean was pacing back and forth in the small room, the white sterility of it all making him want to vomit. Sam had been out for almost two days, and every time the doctor would do his rounds, he would give him the same stupid face and they same stupid response: "Well, Dean. There's no change in your Brother's condition, but at least its not getting worse."

"_No shit," _Dean was tempted to yell at him. But yelling at the doctor would run the risk of getting kicked out, and Dean had barely left the cramped quarters for 48 hours. He wasn't gonna leave his brother. Not here. And not like this.

Dean walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful not to disturb the IV and monitors. He lifted a weary hand and gently stroked the hair away from his little brother's face. He neatly tucked the bangs in, only to have them flop back down. Dean allowed himself a tired smile. Sam's hair had always been unruly. When he was younger, it would puff up in the humidity with huge curls and rat's nest. Dean used to tease him, saying he looked like Shirley Temple got struck by lightning.

"You remember that, Samantha?" Dean whispered, smoothing the covers with his hand. He knew it was stupid to hope for a response, but he found himself silently waiting all the same. When none came, he sighed. "Well, you take your time in there, Sam. Don't rush yourself. Not like I'm out here alone panicking or anything like that." Dean clapped his knees and stood, careful not to jar the thick cast around Sam's lower abdomen and upper thigh. The pelvis on his right side had shattered, but the surgeon said that with Sam's bone structure and excellent health, the screws the put in should last for the rest of his life, and the hip's mobility should almost be at 100 percent, as long as he stayed in shape and excercised it regularly.

Dean had assured him that there was no problem in that department.

Dean's eyes shot quickly to the ugly purple bruises covering the few inches of exposed skin on Sam's elevated leg. It looked like Andy Warhol had painted ink blots. The deep purple and black splotches decorated Sam's upper knee and lower thigh. The puncture wounds from where the beast had grabbed him were wrapped heavily, but angry red marks surrounded the bandages. Dark slabs of yellow and black danced around the edges of every purple bruise. All in all, it was sickening, and Dean made sure it stayed covered at all times. He told himself it was to keep Sam warm, but in truth, Dean couldn't look at the welts without bile rising into his throat. Dean couldn't imagine the pain, the fear, his brother must have experienced…

Dean shuddered. Now was not the time. Dean stretched, wincing at the sore muscles and itchiness of the stitches. Dean hadn't even realized until they had gotten to the hospital that the ice had ripped long gashes in his legs. They were no more than scratches, really, but the doctor had insisted on sewing them up. Dean scratched gently at them beneath his jeans. He had watched the doctor work, and frankly, he could have done better with a sewing needle and floss.

Dean groaned as he sat down. He was bored, and he was anxious. He wanted to just lie down and sleep for a week, but knew he couldn't. Dean shook his arms a bit, trying to force himself to stay alert. He had to be there for Sam when he woke up. He waited thirty years in Hell. He could wait another few hours for Sam to get his ass out of bed.

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

* * *

Sam's chin snuggled deeper into the blankets. He could feel himself starting to wake up, and frankly, he didn't want to. This little world of his was soft and fluffy- basically everything reality wasn't. Sam mentally sighed, and shook his brain awake. He knew that Dean would be worried, and be waiting for him. Christ, the man probably hadn't left the room since they'd been admitted. Sam smiled.

Very carefully, Sam started to move his fingers. He checked for feeling in all of his limbs, and seriously assessed every inch of skin, all from within his dream state. He knew his hip was broken, and he knew he was covered in bandages and braces, but all in all, he wasn't too crappy.

Now for the big moment. Sam took a deep breath, wincing slightly when his sore rib cage expanded. First, Sam opened his ears. He wanted to make sure that there weren't any doctors around. God he hated doctors. It's not like they were bad people, or anything, but…well, you know. Sam tried to listen, but it sounded like he was buried beneath a mound of cotton. Everything was fuzzy and slurring together. It would take some time to regain his senses, but he also suspected this had something to do with the pain meds he was on, because man, did he feel happy.

Even in his drunken state, Sam could pick out a very distinct sound. It was a gravelly monotone, deep and tired sounding, but as comfortable and warm as lullaby. The voice continued, swelling and changing, letting out small chuckles here and there. Sam didn't even realize when he had actually started to hear things again, but when he did, he realized he was listening to a very familiar story.

"I do not like Green eggs and ham," Dean's voice went deep for one character and higher for the next. Sam wanted to laugh and crack a remark, but he mostly just wanted to savor this moment. Dean was reading him a bed time story.

"I do not like them Sam I am!" Dean paused, and Sam could hear him mark the page and close the book. "Ya know something, Sammy?" Dean's jacket rustled as he shifted in his chair. "You loved this book when you were a kid, man. You used to beg me to read it to you over and over again. You were convinced that the book was about you." Dean chuckled before continuing. "But you were also convinced that someday, a fuzzy little freak was gonna force green eggs down your throat." Dean smiled. "I used to tell you not to worry, that I would hunt the little bitch down if he tried." Dean laughed- a good, gentle laugh. One that Sam barely heard any more. Sam felt tears welling up in his closed eyes. Why is it that they could never talk like this when they were both coherent?

Sam was savoring the moment, just listening to his brother talking, until he sensed the change of atmosphere int he room. Dean's laughs had morphed into choked words, his nose sounded congested, and his voice wavered.

Dean was crying.

"A-And you used to say, '_I know, Dean. I know you will protect me. Cuz you're my big brother._'" Sam tensed, wanting nothing omre than to jump up and comfort his brother, but he couldn't move a muscle. Much to Sam's dismay, Dean continued.

"And you know the worst part? I believed it, too Sammy. I believed that I could protect you. But obviously, I can't. I failed, Sammy. And now…now, you're here. You're broken, and it's my fault. I should have been there, and I should have just waited outside with you. I should have found you sooner, or not fallen asleep on the couch! I should have…done something-anything differently. And this?" he gestured around himself. Dean paused, and took a shaky breath. "It should be me, Sammy," He cried. The tears were evident in his voice. "It should be me, laying there broken and comatose, man! I'm the one who deserves it. It shouldn't be you!" Dean's voice was wavering and the sniffling was constricting his throat. "This is my fault. And for that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

Sam felt the pressure on the mattress as Dean planted his face into the blanket right next to Sam's chest. He was crying almost silently-Dean style. But it was crying, nonetheless. The younger Winchester could feel his heart breaking with every little heave his brother gave. He needed to comfort him, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't. Sam could barely move, never mind sit up and have a full conversation. But he was determined, and with a great effort, Sam felt his eyelids beginning to flutter. He pushed and willed himself to wake up, and hearing his brother next to him gave him one final shove.

The room was blindingly bright, but he forced himself to adjust. As quietly and smoothly as he could, he pulled one pale arm from beneath the covers. Dean didn't seem to notice. Sam reached across, willing himself not to cry out with the effort. He brought the arm down as silently as he could next to Dean's head. Stretching out his heavy fingers, he touched the top of Dean's head with one feathery finger. it was all the movement he could manage, but it was enough. "D-n? S'not your fault…" Sam felt exhaustion creeping towards him again, but he willed himself to stay awake for just another minute. That's all he needed.

Dean shot up, eyes wide despite their puffiness. "Sammy? SAM!" Dean was gentle, but couldn't help himself. He had to use every ounce of will to be gentle, but Dean lifted Sam up enough to wrap him within his arms. He held him, clinging for dear life, before Sam gave a slight cough, and mentioned quite calmly that he couldn't breathe. Dean let out a strangled laugh and repositioned a limp Sam on the pillow. Dean ran his hands over Sam's face, patting his cheeks, checking his temperature, cupping his jaw. It was all he could do not to jump up and down on the bed. "You son of a bitch! You scared the hell out of me!" Dean felt a weight soar off his shoulders. Sam was fine. He was talking. He was gonna be ok.

"D-n…" Sam managed a small grin.

"Yah? What is it? You need a doctor? Pain meds? Some real food? Say the word, man, and I'll get it." Dean looked earnest, and sincerely worried. Sam searched for his brother's hand, and when he found it, he held it with all his might.

Dean felt his brother's grip-it was as light as a feather.

"D-n, just…stay…'nd…lemme…sleep…" Sam let his eyes close as he watched the worry lines on Dean's face smooth out. The older brother smiled and nodded. Dean plumped the pillows and re-tucked the blankets.

"Night, Sammy." Dean pushed he hair away from his brother's closing eyes.

Sam tucked his head into the pillow, comforted by his brother's familiar touch. "D-n?"

"What? What's wrong?"

"Its…" Sam took a deep breath, preparing for sleep. Dean leaned in closely, sincerely concerned.

"Its…Sam…not S-mmy..." he sighed, the grips of subconscious tugging him under. A mischievously loving grin split Dean's face.

"Sure it is, baby brother. Sure it is…"

* * *

"I gave you one task, Larson. One simple. little. task." Luther glided forward menacingly, a cool calm tone hiding the building rage beneath. His expensive Italian shoes made no sound as he crossed the Oriental rug to the lounge. Larson followed him, dismayed to be leaving the warm glow of the fire at his back. He hadn't had a chance to dry off properly after the little swim him and the Winchesters took. He shivered just thinking about it.

"I-I know, brother, but-" Larson stammered quietly, trying to explain the unfortunate turn of events, but his meager excuses were silenced by the curt voice of Luther.

"Kill him! That's all I told you to do. Kill him quickly, quietly, and make sure you didn't get caught. Was that too much to ask? APPARENTLY! No, you had to go ahead and play with your food. Just swat him around a while, that it? .USELESS!" Luther lost control of his temper and flung the crystal glass of scotch in his hand across the room with deadly speed. He took pleasure in the horrific crashing sound the glass made as it collided with the jagged granite hearth of the mansion's great room. Scotch splashed into the blaze, causing the fire to hiss and sputter, swelling with the fuel. An orange glint from the swelling flames caught in Luther's eyes, and the terrifying glint in his eye made Larson cringe. He hated when his brother yelled at him. Larson shot a quick glance at the Grandfather Clock across the hall. It was nearly six in the morning, and he hadn't slept in almost forty eight hours. Larson didn't care what his brother had to say at this point-he just wanted to sleep. Best to just get this over with.

"Pease, Luther, I tried my best, I really did but the short one, he-"

Luther turned swiftly and grabbed his younger brother by the collar. His primordial power allowed him to lift Larson a good eight inches off the floor, until he was sputtering for breath and grabbing at the hand that squeezed his neck ever tighter.

"The short one, eh? Dean? That little Ass monkey? Sam, I can understand. He's huge, and tough, and too much of a man for the likes of you." Luther spat out, releasing his brother to the floor. Luther watched with an evil grin on his face as Larson choked for air, heaving and coughing through his crushed windpipe. "But Dean? The leather clad smurf?! Are you a fucking IMBOSILE?!"

Larson wheezed while his older brother ranted. "He's taller in person…" he muttered under his breath, tentatively trying to stand.

"What was that?" Luther glared at him.

"Nothing, brother." Larson pushed himself against the wall. Better to be out of the war path than in the firing zone. Perks of being a Wallflower, he supposed.

Luther seemed to forget that he should be beating the ever living shit out of his idiot brother. He was too busy worrying about that fact that now they had a pair of angry Winchesters that would no doubt be crawling up his ass as soon as they were discharged.

Luther pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the migraine coming on. "Look," he began, waving dismissively towards his cowering little brother. "Just…Just leave me. Go. GET OUT!" Larson ran from the study like a dog with is tail between his legs. Luther listened for the foyer French doors to close before he shuffled over to the bar again. Pouring himself another scotch in a new glass, he contemplated his options. He could get the hell out of Dodge, or he could defend himself. And frankly, Luther felt he had worked much too hard on building his lavish estate to pack up and go because Bullwinkle and Smurfette had rolled into town.

"Oh for Christ's Sake…" Luther collapsed onto the sofa, head resting in his palm. He had known something like this was bound to happen. Larson was always the fuckup in the family, from day one, when he came pissing and moaning into the world. Luther had always been the strong, silent one. He resented Larson for it. Larson had always received all the attention from Mummy and Daddy, always their baby boy- the prodigal son. He was kind and sweet, but had nothing between the ears. Luther was the strongest, the quickest, the savviest, and the most powerful. But no one had ever cared.

Perhaps that's why it had been so pleasurable when he'd slit his parents throats.

"Well, Luther old boy," Luther tipped his cup forward into this mouth, the familiar liquor filling his throat with heat. "If you want something done right," he stood, grabbing his heavy winter coat from the rack by the study door. "You have to do it yourself."

Luther donned his cowhide gloves and switched his Italian wafers for heavy rubber boots. The wind whipped at him, nearly pushing him backwards. He felt a delightfully evil chuckle trying to escape from his lips. He could only imagine the pain and cold the younger Winchester had endured. The thought made him smile.

He opened the driver's door to the Ferrari and climbed in, blasting the heat. He would take the main road, and quickly. He would need time and careful planning to get into the hospital unnoticed. He would have to catch a doctor or nurse in the parking lot after their shift. Luther inwardly groaned. He particularly liked this skin he wore. He looked handsome, and quiet devilishly so, If he may be so bold. It would be a pity to switch with some common place nurse. But alas, so are the woes of life.

Luther pulled onto the road, satisfied at the sight of the groundskeepers shoveling away. The driveway was smooth and easy to maneuver, even in such a ditsy little Italian automobile. He activated his GPS and the route to the hospital shone bright from the dashboard.

The Winchesters would be caught unaware, especially at an hour like this. Sam would probably be infantile, if not still comatose. Luther scolded himself. He should not have waited so long to act. The moment Larson returned, he should have been out the door. It would be harder now, and no doubt perilous. But since when had his life been easy? It was monotonous and stressful, and being powerful was lonely. Not to mention, he was constantly surrounded by idiots. Luther rolled his eyes as he drove, remembering all the times his brother had ruined his plans. Their parents had considered them quite a team, before Luther had their tracheas removed. But what dear old Mum and Dad had always failed to notice, was how Larson always got himself into trouble, only for Luther to come pull him out again by the skin of his teeth. So many times, their plans had failed because of him. It was so frustrating!

Luther's knuckles gripped the steering wheel until they turned white.

This time, Larson would pay severely-But not until Luther had dealt with those pesky hunters. He had a bargain to hold up, and Larson had put him behind schedule. The King of Hell was not a man to be trifled with, and a deal is a deal. Besides, Crowley certainly had sweetened the pot. He must want these boys dead _really_ badly.

Luther couldn't wait, and felt himself becoming excited for the first time in at least a decade. He would grab those boys, string them up, and strip the skin off their bones. They will die slowly. They will die painfully…

And they will die tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry Lovelies! I have been trying to find time to sit down. Honestly, I usually don't take this long, but you all know what exams are like….*shudder*…**

**Anyway, let's get on with it!**

**YAHHHHHHH!**

* * *

"Goodnight, Miss Judy. See you in the morning!" The small blonde waved back at the janitor.

"Night, Rick." Nurse Judy pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the inevitable yawn. Once again, she checked her watch. It read half past two. She quickly stamped her time card and grabbed her coat from the break room. It had been a long night in the trauma ward. Gun shots, stab wounds, lacerations, amputations- you name it, she's seen it. Honestly, she wanted nothing more than to go home, take a hot steamy shower, and curl up next to Bongo, her oversized, over-playful Great Dane. Judy smiled, despite her weariness. Bongo was the sweetest little baby, always so friendly to everyone. But he was the worst guard dog ever, he only ever made friends. She laughed aloud at the thought, earning a questioning look from one of the night guards. She blushed and waved, stepping into the entrance way.

The automatic doors slid soundlessly apart, as Judy slipped into the parking lot. The sky was pitch black, and the only light came from the yellowed lampposts that stood lonely guard over the cars.

She reached into her sweater, keeping it clasped at the top with one hand against the frigid wind. She searched, diving her hand deeper into the depths of her pocket. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath. "Where are those damn things?" She sighed and slumped. It had just been a long day. She set her purse down on the hood of her car and fumbled through it, straining to make out the shape of her key ring in the shadows of the trees. Her fingers groped and scanned, until finally, she felt them connect with the cold steel of her fob. "Ah-ha!" She announced in victory, twirling the circle around her finger and snatching it up in her fist.

"Miss?" The voice behind her startled Judy so badly she dropped her precious keys and clutched a hand to her chest. She watched with despair as the ring bounced under the car.

"O-Oh," she stammered, laughing at her own nerves. "I'm sorry, its just-you just scared me, is all."

"Oh, I do apologize. That was not my intention." He flashed her an apologetic smile, but it sent child down her spine. Little red flags went off in her head, and all of her instincts were screaming that this guy was bad news. But, he as quite handsome, and he seemed sincere enough. _'It's just my nerves. It's been a long day,' _Judy told herself.

"No, it's quite alright. I shouldn't have been so jumpy." Judy gave her own awkward smile and crouched to search for her keys. Her knees never made it to the pavement.

An impossibly powerful fist caught her in the larynx, sending her reeling backward, unable to breathe. Her throat burned and screamed. She could feel her windpipe popping with every strangled breath she took. It was nearly completely crushed. She tried to call out, but no mangled sound could escape her mouth. The shadowed man stood over her as tears welled in her eyes.

"I am quite sorry about this. You see, my brother is an incompetent dick." He reached a hand towards her.

Judy felt he onslaught of tears well in her eyes. Blood foamed and spurted out between her teeth from her hemorrhaging throat. She panicked, and thrashed, but his iron grip latched onto her left shoulder, pressing hard enough to draw blood through her layers of clothes.

_Please!_ Her eyes begged. _Please don't!_

Luther sighed. He hated when things got messy. "Really, you must believe me. This isn't an everyday occurrence, alright? If anything, my dear, you should feel privileged. Not many hairless apes such as yourself have the honor of being my muse. Now then, shall we?"

The confusion clear in Judy's wide eyes was quickly replaced by raw terror as she watched the hand of her captor transform. His clenched fingers became razor sharp claws- massive hairy things. They extended as he transformed, plunging deep into her flesh. Her scream of agony came out a disgusting gurgle as crimson froth and drool poured from her hanging jaw. He pushed his hand in farther, watching with a cold pleasure and calm manner as Judy convulsed with pain and fear. Her free arm came up weakly to defend herself, merely brushing his chest with what he could only assume to be the last amount of her strength. It was extremely amusing. His head tilted, calculating. Luther found it fascinating how someone so…so insignificant could fight so desperately for such a pathetic life_. _

_What was it that made them so important? So crucial? They were inferior, yet they seemed completely oblivious to how __incredibly_- Luther flexed his finger and watched her rib pop out of her mangled chest-_fragile._

"Ooh," Luther tsked. "That must have hurt."

Judy gave one last gargle and spasmed, her whole body shaking. Then, she was still. The life left her eyes and Luther gave his first genuine smile in a long time.

It felt good to be back.

He felt the fatty tissues around his treasure and ripped them away with a clean swipe of his claws. He felt his hand close around the now still heart, and he replaced his previous ferocity with caution. He handled the organ with care, like a mother with a babe. Luther gave a quick tug and felt the ventricles and the veins rip apart, releasing the thumper from its red grave.

"Hello, beautiful," Luther studied the heart and gave it a quick kiss. He licked his lips, tasting the warm blood between his teeth. It had been too long.

"Now then, shall we?"

Luther grinned and plunged his mouth towards the soft sinew. It broke off like a chunk of gelatin, squishing and oozing between his teeth. The blood flowed down his chin and onto his clothes, but that didn't matter. He had a pair of scrubs in the trunk. Tonight, he could be messy.

He let the soft warm meat roll around in his mouth, savoring the metallic burn that lingered in his throat. Luther opened his mouth wide and pushed the heart with two hands between his teeth. He ate and chewed and groaned like a starving man. He sucked through the aorta like a straw and pulled at the stringy flesh with his tongue. He closed his eyes and savored it, groaning with pleasure.

Too soon, he could feel himself starting to change. His claws retracted, and his hair began to grow. The pain from the snapping and realignment of his bones was nothing compared to the pleasure of feeding, though. At least for that, Luther was grateful. His shoulder rotated, and his neck hitched from one side to the other. His nose shot backwards into this skull, becoming more petite and pointed. The Leg bones compressed themselves, shortening, and then lightening to replicate the bone structure of his victim. His skin shifted, swelling in certain places and tightening in others. By the time the grueling process was over, Luther was licking the last of the bloody skin of his fingers. He crawled off the ground, slightly off balance. It often times took several minutes to grow accustomed to a new body. It's a good thing he did this now, when he wouldn't-well, SHE wouldn't-have to go to work for another few hours.

The new and improved Luther stood tall, hair blowing in his face and hand wiping the blood from his mouth. He looked at the crumpled form on the ground, bloody and mauled. He glanced down at his own body, much shorter now, and not fitting into the men's pants and shirt he had worn previously.

Judy walked the few feet to where Judy lay, dead. She bent down and ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it. Judy closed her eyes and leaned in to the blood spattered forehead, planting a gentle kiss on the corpse's skin.

"You're welcome."

Judy stood, her face completely calm. She dug a hand into the baggy slacks and pulled out her expensive phone. She punched in the number and waited.

"Hello?"

"Larson, clean up time."

"L-Luther? That you?"

Luther/Judy sighed. "Temporarily you moron. Now get here within the next five minutes or this pretty little whore that I am will rip you limb from limb, do you understand me? We are behind schedule, Larson. And I am never behind schedule."

"Y-Yah, sure thing, Luther. I'm on my way. I'll be there as-"

Luther pressed the end button with disgust. Larson was such a blabbering fool; Luther prided himself on being able to refrain from carving his eyes out thus far. _However_, he remembered with a happy sigh_, the night is young, and there will plenty of opportunities to end that mangy mutt._

Luther bent down and reached beneath the car to retrieve the precious keys. He dangled them up by his face and looked at the body before him. "Found them!" He laughed sickly. He quickly transferred his belongings and tools into Judy's-well, now _his _car, and without further ado, he pulled away. The Subaru cut onto the main drag without a sound and Luther drove in peace all the way back to Judy's apartment.

But he was still a bit peckish- his stomach wasn't quite full. Hmmm…He licked his lips, savoring the remainder of the blood.

Still he was having a bit of a craving. He thought back to what he knew of Judy, and a satisfied grin played on his lips.

Yes… a dog would do nicely.

* * *

"And-And so then," Dean wiped at his eyes, brushing the tears away. He can barely speak through his laughter. "Then, the asshole says," Dean doubles over in his chair, "He says: _well, then what the fuckin' hell did ya ask me for?_" Dean spits out the last line and clutches his side. Sam is doing no better. He begged Dean to stop, that laughing hurt too much, but really it just made it even funnier for the both of them. Sam groaned as his grin split him from ear to ear. It felt so good to just sit here with his brother and laugh and tell jokes. It was a rare moment, and they were both enjoying it.

The aftershocks of the joke still rumbled on. Every now and again, one boy would laugh a bit, or his shoulders would shake silently, but for the most part, they sat in a comfortable silence. It had been a good day, and they felt more relaxed then they had in a while. Dean had gotten an all clear from his doctor. The stitches on his legs and chest were healing nicely, and the frostbite was cleared. Sam had to stay for a few more days under observation, but after that, he could send them home with some heavy duty pain pills and sterile dressings. This was definitely good news for more than one reason.

The obvious one: Sam was getting better. He would be fine.

The not so obvious one: the less time they spent here, the more chance the boys would have of getting out before the hospital staff realized their insurance and credit cards were fake.

Ahh… good times.

Dean stretched and grunted, getting up from the cushioned hospital chair to rid himself of the cramps in his legs. He walked around the bed and feigned interest in some magazines and such. Sam was flicking through the channels looking for something slightly bearable. At this time of the night, the only things on was infomercials. Finally, Sam gave up hope in his channel surfing and succumbed to his exhaustion. He yawned and shot a glance at the red clock by his bed. It was nearly three in the morning. He had woken up about six hours ago but already it felt like he had been up for a week.

Another wide-mouthed yawn sounded through the room, despite Sam's best efforts to muffle it under his hand. Dean turned and looked at him accusingly.

"I told you to tell me when you got tired. I didn't want to keep you up, Sam."

"Dean," Sam rolled his eyes. "Stop being Momma-Bear. I am a grown man. I was having a good time just talking. When I'm tired, I'll let you know."

"Yah, bullshit. Get to bed. I'll get the doctor to dose you up so you sleep through the night, ok?" Dean started towards the door.

"Hey! Don't just leave me here!" Sam waved his arms and gestured in disgust to the horrific white sterility of it all. Dean couldn't help but smirk. Despite his little brother's macho routine, he honestly did hate hospitals.

"What are you gonna do, Sam? Drag yourself across the floor?" Dean chuckled.

"Hey, I resent that!" Sam sat up, mock indignation clear across his features.

"Oh you do, do you?"

"Yah, I do. I would never drag myself across the floor. They gave me a wheel chair, asshat."

Dean laughed and waved his hands. "Ooh, look out, here comes Hot Wheels!"

"Hey!" Sam laughed and threw a nearby tissue box in the direction of his brother. The cardboard hit Dean straight in the face, making Dean sputter. Little bits of white fluff from the extra soft papers clung to Dean's hair and jacket. Sam laughed so hard he had to clutch his aching side.

Dean picked the tufts from his clothes, muttering all the while about "pussy little brothers" and "the evils of lotion-infused tissues." He brushed the last bits from himself and shot a glare at Sam, who was red in the face.

"Bitch." Dean grumbled, turning quickly down the hall to hide the amusement on his face.

"Jerk!" Sam called after him, smile completely shameless. He chuckled to himself, reached across the nightstand and found the switch. He was undoubtedly tired, and when the light disappeared from the room, Sam found himself sinking fast.

He fell asleep with a smile still on his lips.

* * *

Morning came with a bang.

Literally.

Sam bolted from his sheets, heart pounding. The loud noise had completely caught him off guard.

"Dean?!" He yelled into the darkness of his room. "Dean!"

No reply.

He frantically scanned the room for a light. The red thrum of the alarm clock was directly on his left.

11:45 am

Sam's eyebrows furrowed. Nothing was making sense. His mouth felt like cotton and his head felt heavy. No doubt the meds he was on had worked their magic. He wasn't in pain, he was just extremely confused.

"Dean!" He called again. His thinking became less groggy as adrenaline coursed through his clouded mind. He didn't know what the sound had been, and his brother was gone.

Guns? Explosions?

Every possibilty pointed to one conclusion: Dean was in trouble.

"DEAN!" Sam's head swiveled frantically. "DEAN? DEAN? DEAN?!" After what couldn't have been more than five seconds but what seemed like an eternity, Sam threw back his covers with his good arm and ignored the burning from his hips. He had to get up and find Dean. Sam swung his leg across with a shamefully loud moan of pain and positioned himself on the edge of the bed. He took a few deep breaths and prepared to slide off when the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly approached his door and burst through the entrance.

"SAM? Sammy! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean dropped the two cups of coffee he had been holding and sprinted from the doorway to his brother's bed.

"What the fuck are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack? What the hell is wrong with you?!" Dean gingerly picked up his legs and placed them back under the covers, sliding Sam away from the rail. "I leave you alone for five goddamn minutes to take a piss and get a cup of Jo, and here you are screaming for me so loud the whole hospital can hear you, and by the time I get here, you're trying to fucking kill yourself."

Dean was trying to keep his tone mocking and light, but underneath, even a drugged Sam can hear the emotion and worry. Dean had been scared.

"Dean, I just-" Sam tried to swat his hand's away from tucking him in, but Dean was having none of it. He looked up at Sam with anger evident in his face.

"You were what, Sam? What? I was two hundred yards away when you start screaming bloody murder! Do you have any idea how scared I was? You calling out my name, and I'm not there? Do you have any idea how much it hurts when YOU NEED ME AND I'M NOT THERE?" Dean's eyes burned into Sam's, searching for a response.

Sam couldn't answer. He didn't know how. He just sat there, drugged and confused, with his jaw hanging open like an idiot. Dean, meanwhile, shook himself lightly, regaining his composure. His fear turned back into anger as he finished tucking Sam into the covers with a little more force than necessary.

"Yah, I thought not."

"Dean, I…I got scared." In ten seconds, Sam had regressed into the mindset of an eight-year-old. Dean couldn't help but feel a little bad for the kid. Sam didn't handle drugs too well. Dean sighed.

"Sam, what scared you? What could have possibly happened that would scare you? I was right down the hall." Dean was exasperated.

"I…I heard a loud bang, and I woke up, and you weren't here, and I thought…I thought…" Sam stopped talking and started swallowing rapidly, blinking his eyes and avoiding his brother's questioning gaze.

He was sniveling.

"Oh for the love of God…" Dean stood up and threw his hands up over his head. He couldn't handle PMS Sam on a regular day, never mind when he was tripping balls. Dean wiped a hand across his face. He would have to handle this delicately and sensitively.

Yah, sensitivity: not exactly his forte, I know.

Dean turned back to face his brother, who was now openly crying. Big fat alligator tears course down his bruised face.

"Sam-Jesus-oh, shit. Don't, oh my god, don't cry! What the hell happened?"

Sam stared up at him, puppy dog eyes engaged. "I woke up and I was scared and you weren't here and I thought you were dead cuz the bang sounded like an _esploshun_!" Sam sniffed. "AND THEN YOU YELLED AT ME!"

"I didn't yell at you." Dean muttered. "And Sam, you're not three. Say _explosion_ like a grown man."

"Eck- Es- Epslud-expolusti-explustion-exspl-"

"Oh just forget it."

"See?" Sam slumped with a whine. "You're yelling at me again!"

"I never yelled at you!"

"Yuh-huh you did. I saw you do it, Mister Winchester, so don't you try to lie to me!" Sam hiccupped and tried to point accusingly at his brother, but he wasn't sure which one was the real one, so he just pointed at the one on the left.

"Samuel?" Dean raised one eyebrow at his obviously loony brother and crossed his arms.

"Yep?"

"I'm over here."

"Oh." Sam nodded. "Well, make sure you stay there this time."

"Sure thing."

"Damn straight it's a sure thing. I know what I'm talking about, you know. I know what I'm saying. And-and if you don't agree with me, then F-"

BAAAAAABBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!CRAAAAAAAASSSSSHHHHHH!

"HOLY SHIT!" Sam grabbed his covers and reached for his brother. Dean was surprised at the vise grip Sam could manage in his state.

"Sam? What is your problem?!" Dean practically had to slap him to get him to let go of his forearm.

"THE BANG, DEAN! THE BANG NOISE!" Sam looked completely terrified, beyond scared. His eyes were wide and his face was flushed. Dean probably should have comforted him, but he was too busy laughing.

"S-Sam…" Dean wiped his eyes. "Sammy, Its-its-oh hell, I'll show you." Dean laughed his way over to the window, pulling back the blinds. A dull silver light flooded in, and the previously muffled chorus of fat raindrops hitting the glass now echoed clearly within the room.

"Dean! The window's crying!"

"Holy shit, Sam." Dean laughed again. "It's RAINING, buddy."

Dean looked at Sam hoping he would catch on.

No such luck.

"Sam. It's a winter storm. The banging sound? It was the thunder." As if to prove his point, lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a loud rumble from deep within the heavens.

Sam simply stared first at the window, then back at his brother, then back at the window. Dean raised his eyebrows expectantly.

_Sam got nothin'._

"Ok, well, I'll just let you figure it out on your own, then, alright?" Dean reached over the nightstand and grabbed their new box of tissues the nurse had given them last night. He handed a few to his brother for his sniffling nose and used the rest to sop up the steaming caffeine that was pooling on the tile.

Minutes went by without a sound from either, until finally, a bewildered Sam had the epiphany of the day.

"DEAN! IT'S A THUNDERSTORM!" Dean looked up and shook his head in an 'are-you-fucking-kidding-me' sort of way, but  
the priceless look on his brother's face made it impossible for Dean to be annoyed. Sam looked like a unicorn had just handed him a million dollars.

"Yes. Sam. Yes it is."

"Yep." Sam snuggled deep into his pillow, obviously quite happy with himself. "I knew it."

"Sure you did. Sure you did. I'm real proud of you."

"I know…But you still yelled at me."

"For the love of God, Sam! I didn't yell at-"

"You're doing it right now!"

"Just shut the fuck up."

Silence.

"…You're ugly when you yell."

"You're just ugly."

"That's hurtful."

"That's the point."

"Yah? Psh. Well, I don't give an _ass' rat_ what you think! You wanna know why? Cuz…cuz you are a butthead!"

Dean sighed. "Sam?"

"Yes, butthead?"

"Go to sleep."

"Oh. Ok."

"Goodnight, Sam."

"Nighty Night Deany."

"Sam?"

"Hm-mm?"

"It's Dean."

"Sure it is big brother. Sure it is."

Dean smiled at the now sleeping form of Sam. He got up off the floor and tossed the sopping wet tissues in the garbage can. He pulled the covers up gently, making sure every inch was covered so Sam didn't get cold. He walked back over to the window and closed the blinds to stop the obtrusive light from bugging Sam while he slept. Satisfied with his work, Dean settled onto the cot he had had wheeled in the room for him and pulled his boots off. He was tired as well, and a nap never hurt anyone, right? He reclined onto his own stiff pillow and pulled the warm blankets up to his shoulders. _Hmmm...This bed sure is cozy._ Dean's stomach was full, his bladder was empty, and his brother was safe by his side.

Needless to say, Dean Winchester was out like a light in a matter of minutes.

* * *

The petite blonde nurse watched through the glass door as the short-haired brother fell asleep. She savored the moment- the taste of victory sweet in her mouth (or, was that the leftover dog she'd had this morning?).

She smiled to herself. It had been too easy. Luther had made his way upstairs with just a few quick smiles, an ID flash here and there, and several "strange weather we're having, isn't it?" conversations. She had found their room in a matter of minutes. Now all she had to do was walk in. And she wasn't going to hesitate. Larson had decided to underestimate these boys, and we all saw what came of that. No, Luther was smart. He would heed Crowley's advice. He wasn't going to underestimate these Denim-wrapped nightmares.

Luther wasn't going to wait any longer.

The nurse grabbed the food tray off the cart and looked down each end of the hall. No one was coming her way, nor were they even paying attention. It would be a quick in-and-out job.

No struggle.

No mess.

Luther twisted the handle to the door and stepped inside, not making a single sound. The door closed behind the blonde with a barely audible click. Luther glanced worriedly at the two brothers, just in case.

They were both snoring softly.

Luther set the tray down on the table. Reaching into the deep pockets of her scrubs, "Judy" pulled out a long silver blade. She stalked over noiselessly, feet barely making a whisper on the tile. She raised the knife high above Dean, an evil grin flashing across her face before she heaved the knife downward.

There was a small gasp, a gurgle, and then death.

* * *

**Please Review! You will make my exam week so much more bearable if only you review! I am sorry it took so long, but I had to study and all that. If you review, you get your own personal Luther Punching Bag! Because honestly, who likes a nurse-slaying dog eater?**


	6. Chapter 6

**PREVIOUSLY:**

**Luther set the tray down on the table. Reaching into the deep pockets of her scrubs, "Judy" pulled out a long silver blade. She stalked over noiselessly, feet barely making a whisper on the tile. She raised the knife high above Dean, an evil grin flashing across her face before she heaved the knife downward.**

**There was a small gasp, a gurgle, and then death.**

* * *

It must be a nightmare.

That's all Dean could think as his eyelids fluttered open to the sight before him. A long silver blade was rocketing downwards with the intent to kill. Its wielder? A little blonde who looked like she had never harmed a soul in her life.

Dean gasped. Dream or not, he wasn't going to be taking any chances. He rolled sideways, adrenaline heightening his drowsy senses. His fingers felt his own knife in his belt and they closed around it, brandishing it from the pouch. With a lunge and a stab it was done.

The nurse stood dumbfounded, her petite fingers dropping her unused weapon to the floor with a clatter. Her hands went to the gaping hole pierced through her abdomen. Dean was on his feet now, gun drawn and at the ready. But there was no need for the firearm. The woman went to her knees. Blood dribbled slightly out of her mouth. There was a gurgle-barely distinguishable, but the disbelief in her voice was resonating.

And then she dropped.

Blood pooled on the floor. Her life slipped away in the rivulets of the tile. Dean still couldn't think clearly. Less than ten seconds ago, he'd been asleep, and now here he was: Heart racing, blood pounding in his ear, and the blood of his assassin on his hands.

What the Fuck.

It had taken hours, but the body was finally cleared from Sam's room. Dean had needed a few minutes to compose himself, and of course he thoroughly checked his brother to ensure no harm had been done. Once the initial shock was passed, Dean went into the drill: He pulled out the fake ID's, slipped into his FBI persona, and called the cops.

The rest was a blur. Between sobbing coworkers, dumbfounded janitors, and whispering gossipers, the news had spread like wildfire throughout the hospital. All around there was denial…

"Oh, I never thought Judy…"

"Can you believe…?"

"I always knew there was something off about that girl…"

And so it continued. It was to the point where Dean was about to sock one of them in the mouth. He was exhausted, Sam was exhausted, and he wanted to get the hell out of here before he made his way onto the Eight o'clock news. Needless to say, their cover was one hair away from being blown to shit.

But still, cop after cop filed into the room, questioning them and interrogating, cross examining his story countless times. Around four in the morning, Dean decided he had had enough.

"Out." He said sternly, voice unwavering. The cop stopped mid question.

"Excuse me, Agent?" he was obviously a rookie. Dean knew that this would be his only chance to intimidate one of them.

"You heard me." Dean's eyes went cold. "I. Said. Out."

"But sir, you know better than anyone that this case needs to be-" The eyes of the young man went wide as saucers as Dean slowly raised his gun.

"If you don't get the fuck out right now, I will shoot off your balls- Followed by your nose, and then your ears." He smiled wryly. "I. Am. Tired. And. I. Am. Grouchy."

Let's just say the officer was kind enough to let him get some sleep.

Dean stalked over to the bed where his baby brother lay, practically drooling with exhaustion. However, Sam had refused to sleep when Dean couldn't.

"Sam?"

"Ngh."

"We're done. You can go to bed."

"You…f-rst…" Sam was so adamant. Dean smiled, patting his shoulder.

"I'm already asleep Sam. I'm already in bed. See?"

Sam didn't even open his eyes.

"Ohh….k…Yep…I…see…"Sam's head lolled.

Dean chuckled and muttered something about 'the effects of over-exhaustion on a drug-addled brain'.

"Night, Sam."

All he got in return was a snore.

* * *

A lamp flew against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. The bookcase was swept off its legs and a thousand antique leather bindings flew from the shelves, landing helplessly and cruelly within the smolders of the fireplace. Before long, the papers caught, sending smoke and flames swirling and dancing around the room. More things toppled and crashed. Larson just needed to hear the sound- he needed the breaking. Sofas were picked up like sacks of potatoes and flung through layers of drywall and cedar beams. Springs and cushions snapped, bookends shattered the French doors, and the umbrella stand splintered into long spikes of shrapnel.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Larson howled, tears and blood streaking down his face.

"NOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He fell to his knees, then, weeping hysterically, breaths coming at random and in heavy bursts. Luther couldn't be dead, he couldn't be. That was impossible, his big brother was invincible….

Luther released another wretched shriek before pounding two hairy and clawed mitts down onto the floor. Their power carried his fists through the planked floor and into the concrete bedding. Larson could have smiled, the irony was so great.

"_As weak as your form…"_ he remembered. "_As powerful as your wolf…"_

That was their mantra- their family catchphrase, if you would. Of course, the full meaning had never been apparent to them until they both came of age. As _Aleki_, their powers came from the moon and the beast. Every _Aleki _was born with a wolf- it was them, their persona, in a raw, powerful monster. The beasts were huge and threatening, often times defeating their prey from simply scaring them to death.

And for a boy who was inferior, like Larson…

Well, his wolf had been a blessing. But Luther, he was…wow. Luther was already so powerful, so perfect. Larson looked up to him more than anyone. He didn't need his wolf, he didn't need anything…or anyone.

Larson felt the tears fall down the tip of his nose-no, his _human _nose. He refused to be human anymore.

"_As weak as your form…"_

Luther had taken on the shape of the blonde, whose corpse Larson had dutifully taken back to the house for proper disposal. But in doing so, he became just as weak-just as mortal, anyway-as she had been.

"But Luther…" Larson choked on a sob, not even realizing that he was talking aloud. "You w-w-were always-s s-so car-e-f-ful…" He buried his head in his hands and wept. Images of happier times, back when his brother was proud of him, back when they hunted together, back when they weren't monsters.

Back when they were just two brothers.

They had done everything together. Luther had taught him how to do anything he asked. He had practically raised him. But everything changed when Luther became of age.

"_I have no time, brother, for you antics. Now run along and play, or do something useful. Try not to be…you."_

The first time Luther had ever said those words, Larson had been hurt badly. They cut him deeper than knives. After the years, though, his skin became leather, and his scars healed faster and faster. He no longer expected his best friend to return; instead, he accepted this new Luther-this new, powerful, intimidating, violent brother.

Larson picked himself up off the floor. He tried to hear his brother's voice in his head.

"_Get off the floor, you sniveling rodent. Pain is bitter, but revenge is sweet."_

_No…not that one_, Larson thought_. Not that voice…_

"_It's us against the world, Larson. Remember that. I will never leave you behind." _Larson smiled through his tear streaked face. He had been four when Luther told him that. He still remembered. He still held on to those moments. But the grief was too fresh, and Larson felt hit after hit of the memories swimming in his brain. He couldn't handle them all, and he sank to the floor.

"Lutherrrrrrr!" He moaned, rocking himself. He could picture his older brother the way they were as children. He would run to him now and hug him tight, not caring who saw, not caring if their father whipped him for being soft. Luther would comfort him.

He hadn't always been a monster.

A fresh wave of blinding pain coursed through his chest. He clung desperately to the chair. He couldn't deny the hate he felt for the Winchesters, and the pain they had caused him. It is only fair that they receive the same.

"_If you ever loved me at all, brother,"_ Luther's cold voice spat in the recesses of Larson's mind, "_You will finish what we started."_

"_Yes, Luther. I will. I swear to you I will kill them. I will bury them. They will watch each other die, and they will realize what they have done to us. The Winchesters must be punished._"

"_They must be punished. Severely."_

Suddenly, something in his mind clicked.

And Larson got off the floor.

His eyes were red, but steely. His voice stoic and his jaw set. This was the new Larson, a killer in every way. Luther's coldness now shone through the eyes of his baby brother, and the hate behind them could stop a planet in its tracks.

He shot a glance at the books still blazing in the fire place. A sick little smirk teased at the corner of his mouth when the flames licked out and caught the curtains. The walls went up in a blaze of yellow flames. He calmly collected his coat and boots, stepping from the parlor into the foyer, and then the garage. He calmly dragged the nurse's body into the house and threw her down the basement stairs, smiling with every crack and thud her fragile little bones gave. He picked his favorite SUV and pulled away from the smoking mansion. He checked to make sure the house was fully ablaze before steering casually onto the highway.

He had one job now, one task. Revenge was in his blood, he screamed for it. He would not be weak. He had no need for anything, no need for anyone. Fuck the deal with Crowley. He was doing this job for his own sweet pleasure, now, not some deal with the devil.

So, the house?

Let it burn.

* * *

Dean knew they needed to leave town. They could finish the hunt later, when Sam was well and things weren't quite so hot around town. He woke Sam up before noon that morning and let him sign the release forms. They left eh hospital with two weeks' worth of painkillers and the crate of sterile dressings.

Plus, Dean grabbed some extra on the way out.

What? Don't judge. You can never be too safe.

So now, Dean and Sam lounged in the motel room. The drive back had been long and tedious, what with Sam cringing at every speed bump, and by the time they reached the motel forty minutes later, a white sheen of sweat was on his face.

Dean struggled to get him into the house, and once Sam was propped firmly against the cushions in front of the TV, Dean forced the pills down his throat.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean had scolded when he resisted the meds. "You know you're in pain, bucko, so do me a favor and don't be a bitch about it."

Sam had shot a glare at him and swallowed the little tablets. The effect was almost immediate, and after five minutes, he was giggling in his sleep. Dean smiled from the kitchen table where he was doing research. His brother could be a bundle of fun when he wasn't being such a little prissy.

It was almost dinner time, and Dean was on his third beer, when a knock on the door sent Dean's hand flying to his sidearm. He shot a glance at Sam, keeping him on the edge of his peripheral vision at all times. If he had to jump between a threat and his brother, he needed to know exactly how many steps.

He could almost hear his brother's nagging voice in his head _"Dean, paranoid much? It's probably a maid or something."_

Yah, well, with the shit he'd seen in the past 36 hours, Dean had the right to be a tad bit 'on edge.'

The hunter held his gun in two hands, walking SWAT style to the door frame. Quickly, he peered through the peephole. At first he thought it was dark outside already, but then he figured something must be blocking the line of sight.

It wasn't until that distinctive click resonated through the door that Dean realized there was exactly one inch of magnifying glass between his face and the dark barrel of that 12-Gauge.

Dean barely had time to suck in a breath and twist as far out of the way as he could before the gunshot sounded in the air.

BOOOM!

* * *

It was a waiting game, really. And Larson could wait. Hell, he'd waited in freezing temperatures in the middle of the woods for that tall one to die, or at least go mad. Sometimes, insanity came first. The forest played tricks on the mind. But they weren't in the forest anymore. This was Suburbia, white picket fences in a quiet northern town. Even the motels were well-kept. Very few tourists came up these parts, and the rooms were almost always vacant. Henrietta Marsh ran the place. She had to be well into her eighties, at least. Sweet old lady, always quick to help a guy in need, always quick to call for help.

Larson sighed.

Alas, that would be a problem, wouldn't it…

Larson evacuated the Dark SUV and walked casually over to the check in. Henrietta looked up at his tired face and gave him her gentlest grandmother smile.

"Larson, dear, it's been a while since I saw you and Luther around town. How do you to keep to yourselves so much? The town is beautiful at this time of year. Christmas is tomorrow, after all." She smiled, missing the twitch in his eye when she mentioned his deceased brother. "Hold on, right there, dear. I think I might have a few candy canes left in the back."

"Oh, really, Ms. March. There's no need for that." Larson felt the shotgun by his leg, easily concealed on this side of the counter.

"Oh, come now. You're still a growing boy. I always say, that growing is growing, even if it's only sideways." She chuckled sweetly.

Larson almost felt remorse for what he was about to do.

"Ms. March, may I ask you something? "He seems rather distracted, and she mistook his nervousness.

She turned back towards him with a smile.

"You see, ma'am, I heard the other day that, well, there were these bad men in town. Rambling Men, I suppose. I heard they were staying in your motel."

She thought hard for a minute, trying to choose her words carefully. The two boys had seemed very polite, especially the tall one. It had been quite a long time since she had seen a man like that. She though they stopped making those years ago….

"Well," she began. "I can't right say. I have two young gentlemen staying with me currently. They were very chivalrous. Quite handsome too," she giggled. "If you don't mind me saying."

Larson applied his best fake smile, which apparently was quite convincing, because she continued to chatter on. He kept one eye fixed on the parking lot, waiting for that stupid Chevy to pull in. By god, he would torch the damn thing just to kick them while they were down…

"Dear?" Larson didn't notice Ms. Marsh ask him the question. "Dear?"

He snapped back.

"Oh, forgive me, I got lost in thought. What was it you were saying?"

"Well, I was just wondering if there was anything else I could help you with?"

Larson scrubbed a hand over his tired face. "Well, Ms. Marsh, see that's the problem isn't it. You're quite helpful-too helpful, in fact. You would be the kind of woman that would alert authorities of any…conflagrations, would you not?"

It may have been the way he had shifted, or the new tone in his voice, but Henrietta suddenly chose her words very carefully. "Well, Larson," she said slowly. "I would not stand for any violence or wrongdoings under this roof. This is a place for travelers and friends, and I doubt they would ever cause a little old woman trouble." She paused, a new tone of authority rising up. "However, if worse came to worse and a problem could not be handled without help, I would of course alert authorities. I am a good citizen, and I believe in citizen law and such, but here are certain things that I can't handle alone." She allowed herself a cautious smile. "Why do you ask, Dear?"

Larson nodded slowly. "No reason…" He walked around the counter. "But, I was afraid that that was what you'd say."

Larson barely had time to register the terrified look on her face before the barrel sent a bullet between her eyes.

"I do apologize, Ms. Henrietta." Larson cleaned the powder off the 12 Gauge with her handkerchief, now spotted with blood. "But you see, these men killed my brother, and I have to repay the favor. Unfortunately, you would have complicated things. I'm sure you understand."

Larson returned to the car.

He donned his gloves and his ski mask.

And he waited.

* * *

BOOOOM!

Shrapnel flew from the entry hole, and Dean felt the shower of splinters. He ran towards his brother's sleeping form and covered him, hoping to keep most of the jagged pieces from hurting him. He was barely on top of Sam when his ringing ears picked up the sound of a door frame being smashed in.

_He is in the room._

_He has a gun._

_He has a bigger gun than __**me.**_

_How does that even happen? _

Dean rose his head up from his brother's shoulder and moved just quick enough to dodge a bullet that landed much too close to Sam. It sunk instead into the wall six inches above the bed frame.

"WOAH, WOAH!" Dean ducked again. The gunman was shooting at him, and at least for this, Dean could be glad. Better him than the cripple.

Sam awoke at the sound of his brother's shouts, and Dean silently cursed when he saw Sam's lids flutter open. Apparently, the lower grade pain meds they had been given didn't have the same side effects as the other ones, because, despite his obvious grogginess, Sam seemed completely coherent for a change.

"SAM!" Dean ducked another bullet. His assailant loaded shot after shot, his black ski mask covering his obviously square jaw and corded neck. He wondered briefly what would happen if the motel owner called the cops, but with a guy like this, the receptionist was probably already dead.

Sam shook his head to clear the cobwebs. When he finally realized what was actually happening, he jumped into action.

Well, he tried to anyway.

Sam leapt out of bed, gun drawn from beneath the pillow. His hip gave out the moment he stepped to the carpet and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. His teeth ground into each other with a thousand pounds of pressure; it was all the youngest Winchester could do not to scream. Pain flared up and down his shattered hip, but he managed to raise his pistol with a shaky hand and get off a few shots. None of them hit the target, but Sam accomplished his goal. He distracted the monster from Dean.

_DAMMIT, SAM!_ Dean saw Sam's intent, and he cursed him for it. Still, Dean took that slight hesitation in their assassin to lunge for him. His back was turned to confront Sam, who still held the pistol, when Dean fisted the demon knife and leapt with all the force he had. Time seemed to slow down, and Dean felt himself flying through the air, arms ready to tackle this guy and beat him to shit. But, more rapidly than Dean though possible, the man turned.

Dean's face quickly went from intent to shock as the barrel came up against his chest, knocking the wind out of him. His momentum still carried him into the man, and they collapsed into a heap on the floor, Dean holding his knife with all his strength.

There was a shot, and neither man on the floor moved.

* * *

Sam was still slightly dazed, and needless to say in pain, but adrenaline had taken the front seat.

Sam watched his brother kick off from the wall, his jaw set and his shoulder ready for a rough tackle. Dean had lost his gun sometime in the beginning, Sam could see. Otherwise, this would have been over quickly. Dean was a way better shot than this guy.

Fortunately, Dean had his knife stowed in his jacket, and Sam felt relieved when he brandished the weapon. At least he wouldn't be going in naked.

Dean seemed to be shot out of a cannon. He flew silently and hard towards the gunman with the knife expertly pointed to inflict the most damage. Sam felt confident. Dean would end it right here, right now. He was invincible.

But his relief had turned to dread when the shotgun of the man swiveled from Sam to the leaping Dean. Sam saw the look on Dean's face as he collided chest first with the 12-Gauge.

All Sam could do was yell.

The shot sounded the second they hit the ground.

Sam's heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

_Oh, god, no. No. Please, Dean, please._

Sam could see no movement from either man. Tears began to well up in his brown eyes, but he forced them back .Crying wouldn't do any good. He needed to check on his brother.

Sam cautiously hobbled and dragged his way across the carpet. The first thing he did was pry the shotgun out of the unmoving fingers of their assailant. He clicked the safety and tossed the gun onto the bed. He felt the man's neck for a pulse.

Nothing.

Assured, Sam turned his attention to the unnaturally still form of his brother.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, fingers hovering over his brother's head. "Dean? Please, man, please talk to me…"

Sam waited.

"Dean?" he placed a calloused hand on Dean's shoulder and shook. Sam's head fell onto his chest and he sat there, struggling to hold back the tears. "No…Dean…"

A low groan pierced the silence, making Sam jump to alert. He would recognize that grumpy huff anywhere. "DEAN! Dean, are you ok? Oh, God." He flipped his brother over and gasped, seeing the crimson pool soaking through his shirt.

"I'm ok, Sammy. Nghhhh…" Dean groaned, bringing a hand up to his chest where he had impacted with the barrel. That was gonna leave one hell of a bruise. "Ser-usly, I'm good."

"But, the blood, Dean!" Sam ran a hand thorough his hair, still panicking slightly, despite Dean's assurances.

"'S-not mine, Sammy. Well, at least, not most of it." He groaned again and that when Sam snapped back to reality. He studied the scene before him.

The man in black was dead, the demon knife lodged deep into his chest cavity. His shotgun was smeared with gunshot residue and blood from the point blank shot.

"Dean? Did he shoot you, man?"

"Nah, I don't think so, anyways…" Dean moaned again, bringing his knuckles to his thyroid. That was gonna leave a HELL of a bruise for sure! He was barely on his feet when he let out a hiss of pain, clutching his side. Blood oozed from beneath his fingers. "Then again," he gritted his teeth into a smile. "I've been wrong before."

"Jesus Dean, lemme take a look at that."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, it just grazed me. We have extra sterile wraps, right? I can do this by myself. Go back to sleep. It's past your bedtime anyway."

"Since when do I have a bedtime, Asshat?"

"Since ten seconds ago when I told you you had passed it. Duh."

"Oh, real mature, Dean. You get shot and you're still acting like a mother hen."

"Close your cakehole."

"Close your bullet wound."

"Aw, C'mon, that's not-that isn't even clever!"

"Looks who's talking."

"You calling me stupid?"

"No, not at all. Merely…Intellectually challenged."

"That's it, I'll take you right here. Put 'em up, Loser. Let's go. Even shot and beat to shit I could kick your ass."

"Oh yah, because this is definitely a fair fight."

"You're right, Sammy, you are pretty messed up."

"No, no, I was still talking about you."

"You-You are such an ass."

"Chick."

"Oh, no, you did not just bring my masculinity into this. I pride myself on my masculinity. You might as well have just insulted my Baby."

"Yah, you were always kind of butch, weren't you?"

"You bitch."

"'You _sassy _Bitch', you mean."

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" Dean threw his hands up in the air and stalked gingerly to the bathroom. Sam's laughter chimed behind him, and he slammed the door shut. He dug through his duffel, whipping out the sterile wraps. He was right. The bullet had just grazed him, but Dean knew how lucky he had been.

He wrapped the wound and stepped back into the living space. Sam had managed to crawl back up on the bed, but the effort of the past few minutes were clear on his face. He was pale and drawn, and obviously in need of some food and water. Dean headed to the kitchen, stepping over the body. He figured he should probably dispose of it somehow, but he had to make Sammy lunch. And hell, the body wasn't exactly going anywhere, was it?

"Excuse me, "He said with sarcasm as he stepped over the corpse. "I just have to make a quick sandwich. Don't mind me."

And Dean made that sandwich. It was the most kickass sandwich he had ever crafted, actually, and he was proud of himself. It was perfectly layered, perfectly proportioned in relation to mustard, mayonnaise, and cutlets. The lettuce, for once, was fresh, and he didn't squish any of the tomatoes trying to cut them. It was magnificent.

"Sam," He sauntered out of the kitchenette, glory-between-bread in one hand and two beers in the other. "Man, this is beautiful. And I made it just for you. So you better eat the whole thing, because if you don't then-" Dean stopped.

Sam was already asleep.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered. He looked down at the beauty in his hand. The temptation was so great. The only thing that would make this better would be pie.

He looked back at his brother, then back at the sandwich.

He tiptoed back into the kitchen, found some plastic wrap, and secured the sandwich within the fridge. Sam needed it more than he did.

"Night, Baby Brother." Dean whispered, stroking the hair lightly out of Sam's closed eyes. Dean was rewarded with a small gurgle and a half smile. "And Merry Christmas Eve." He began to walk away.

"D-n?" A small voice brought him back to the bed.

"Yah, Sam?"

"You…remembered…" Sam smiled wholeheartedly, then snuggled back deep into his pillow.

"Of course I remembered Sam. It's Christmas. Now go the fuck to sleep or Santa won't give you shit."

Dean smiled, and Sam gave a deep, sleepy laugh.

Dean adjusted his pillows and propped up his casts. He also went to the freezer and filled up the ice bags like the doc had told him to. Sam's biggest problem at this point was swelling, and Dean had to be sure that there would be no permanent nerve damage. Wrapping the arctic bags in towels, Dean leaned them against his bruises, bending carefully over the bed as to not aggravate his own injuries. Sam shivered, and Dean hiked the blanket further up his neck, tucking him in.

Dean turned around and noticed that Sam had left the TV on.

The irony made him laugh out loud. What a classic…what a bitch.

"It's a Wonderful Life"

* * *

**So that concludes the action part, but stay tuned for brotherly fluff when they open presents tomorrow morning. Remember Dean's shopping? Yah, he's basically a shopaholic. Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed and continue to do so. I'm sorry I haven't been faster with this, I usually am! Life is just hectic. Please review, because it makes me sad when you don't…**


	7. Chapter 7

**So here we are, at the end. I'm sorry updates took so long, people. Remind me never ever to start a multichapter ficduring exams *sigh* not one of my best moments. I'm so grateful for the love and reviews I have gotten, and thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited. It means so much! So here's the end, really. Some brotherly Christmas fluff, and if you guys remember a few chapters back, CROWLEY IS INVOVLED! HE will be making a guest appearance! *wink***

* * *

_He-he_, Dean stepped back, victory apparent on his face. _Take that, Santa Clause_.

The room was decked out in twinkle lights. The tree was an actual tree-no Charlie Brown Shrub. There were multicolored bulbs hung (badly) around the pine bristles and cheap ornaments from the drugstore thrown on wherever Dean decided they look best. All of the presents he had gotten Sam were resting peacefully under the tree. He had removed them silently from beneath his bed around two in the morning. Sam hadn't even flinched when Dean dropped one, proving he was out cold. This gave Dean a little leeway to switch through the channels and faintly put on some Irish Tenors.

He knew Sam and he weren't exactly Irish, but hey, the CD's a classic.

A few hours and a couple coffee cups later, the room was perfectly set up. It was Christmas morning and probably the singularly most official Christmas of their lives. Wreathes were on the doorknobs, crooked bows were on the fridge handle, and Dean had even put a gingerbread scented candle in the bathroom, for Christ's Sake.

I'm awesome. He smiled a genuine smile of glee and anticipation. He couldn't wait for Sam to wake up and see all this cool shit!

Dean tried to go back to sleep until at least eight, but the suspense was making that impossible. Finally, he settled down on the couch, tried to find the ABC channel, and smiled when the theme song for the Snow Miser came on. He found himself crudely humming along, and didn't notice as the sun rose in the window and legs stirred behind him.

Dean was halfway through the finale chorus when Sam let out a gasp and a disbelieving, "Dean?"

Dean jumped up from the couch, turning to face his brother with an ear-splitting grin. "Morning, Mrs. Clause. What can I do you for? Coffee, breakfast, bathroom transportation?" Dean laughed as Sam visibly blushed. He hated the fact that Dean had to practically carry him to the john every few hours.

Dean continued, interrupting Sam's huff. "Or, shall we open presents first?" Dean gestured to the colorful boxes beneath the tree with an overly dramatic sweep of his hand. Sam just soaked it all in, his mouth open and his eyes wide.

"Are…Are these for me?" Sam looked at him with such a childlike hope sprawled across his face Dean couldn't help but laugh.

"No, Sam, they're for the other Sammy in residence. Of course they're for you, smart one. Now open them before I do."

But Sam couldn't even form any words. He gaped from Dean back to the tree, then to the tree, then to the whole room, then back to Dean. He looked completely lost.

"Sam, c'mon man, it's Christmas. Open your presents! What are you waiting for?" Dean sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was wrong.

Sam looked up at him again, only this time, Dean could tell he was holding back tears. "I-I thought you forgot…" Dean felt those words pull at his heart strings. Yah, they'd never really celebrated Christmas, but Dean had never forgotten it before. Sure, the whole Purgatory thing, and their argument, had certainly put a damper on things. Their relationship wasn't the same any more, but that didn't mean he would forget about his little brother during the holidays.

"Sam, look at me." Dean rested a comforting hand on his shoulders and squeezed gently. "Do you know me at all? When have I ever forgotten Christmas?" Sam just nodded and smiled. The answer was, of course, never. "Ok, see? So quit being a Grinch and tear into those hideously wrapped boxes like your life depends on it." Sam laughed and agreed, carefully sliding himself up into a sitting position.

Despite Dean's encouragement that he rip the boxes apart like a savage animal, Sam unwrapped each one meticulously and gently, trying to make the moment last as long as he could.

Also despite Dean's protests, Sam was adamant that these boxes were the most beautifully wrapped presents on the face of the earth, even if the paper was sticking out at funny angles, or thatDean had run out of tape and had to use Band-Aids on the last few.

They were beautiful.

Dean brought him present after present to unwrap on the bed. He was practically jumping up and down just from the glee of watching Sam open his gifts.

"Wow, Dean! Thank you!" Sam unwrapped the moccasins, followed by the new suit and the navy blue sweater. The next few boxes were filled with necessities, such as shaving cream, high class razor blades, warm socks, etc. But, of course, Dean saved the best for last.

The eldest Winchester handed his brother a large rectangular box and placed it gingerly on his lap, careful not to jar his injuries. Sam didn't even notice if there was any discomfort. He was having the best time of his life.

Sam peeled away the neon green paper and stopped short when he saw the label on the box. He looked up at Dean and then back at the box, laughing his head off. Dean was confused, and slightly embarrassed. He thought it had been cool…

"Sam? What? Why is it so funny?"

"B-Because, Dean, I-I" Sam just kept laughing, even though his side was aching and his hip was sore. This was just too funny."L-Look under my b-bed, Dean." Sam managed between laughs. Dean's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but did as he was instructed. He crouched on the carpet and reached beneath the old box spring. He nearly jumped in surprise when his hand collided with a solid box. He pulled it from beneath the bed and his eyes lit up. Scrawled across the top of the box in his brothers neat writing was:

**_Dean-_**

**_Maybe now you can find another way to amuse yourself that doesn't involve freezing my laptop. Ha ha._**

**_ Merry Christmas._**

**_ -Sam_**

Dean barely waited for Sam's permission before he ripped into the paper, revealing the large cardboard box with the brightly colored picture on the front.

_Multiflex Hawk Wing: Remote-Controlled Helicopter_

"HOLY SHIT!" Dean's smile was enormous, and he laughed deep from his belly, now understanding Sam's amusement. "What color did I get you?" He chuckled.

Sam tore the rest of the paper off the identical box and searched for the label. "Red and black- Which is good, because I got you blue and grey." They laughed together, one brother on the bed, the other on the floor, holding their new toys.

"Sam, this is awesome, thank you." Dean stood and clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder before removing the box from his lap and placing both their helicopters back beneath the tree.

"You're welcome, man." Sam scooted further up onto the pillows. His butt was sore from all the sleeping, but already just from this excursion, he was feeling tired again.

"Sam, you didn't have to get me anything," Dean began, but Sam stopped him with a raised hand.

"Dean, don't tell me I didn't have to get you anything when you put together this for me." He gestured to the whole room, his eyes still in disbelief. "Man, this is the single nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, you know that? I was honestly worried that we weren't gonna do anything this year, not even our usual stuff, ya know, just get drunk, watch the game." Sam trailed off. He had tried to make it sound light and casual, but Dean could hear the weeks of concern in his voice.

"Sam, I know we had a fight, and I know that things were tense for a while, but that's why I wanted to do this. You know I couldn't stay mad at you." Dean came off a little too serious for his own liking, but he knew what he had to say.

_Sam, you're my brother and there is nothing on this earth that could make me not love you._

But that's not just something Dean Winchester **can** say. So instead, he tried his best to fit it all in to his next sentence and pray Sam would know what he meant.

"Besides," He began. He looked at Sam with a light in his eyes."You're too darn helpless, Sammy. Being angry with you-It's like kicking a puppy." He grinned.

Sam looked at him gratefully.

He had heard it.

The scotch glass in his hand was beginning to fog up in the cold of the early Christmas morning. Christmas, bleh, he hated the word, the holiday, everything about it made him want to puke. He's seen the true nature of the human soul- the evil and greed that accompanies the thoughts of mankind.

_Trust me_, he wanted to say, _there's really nothing about you worth celebrating. Good will towards men my arse._

Crowley glared at the happy scene before him. The brothers were opening presents, for Christ's sake. PRESENTS! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?! THEY SHOULD BE BLOODY DEAD! The man cursed aloud and flung his crystal scotch glass to the cold pavement of the parking lot. It shattered to pieces, along with is temper. His vision went red. If it weren't for the meticulous salt lines and demon traps everywhere in that stupid little gift-wrapped nightmare of a room, Crowley would have burst in there and killed them himself. But no, he didn't know when that Angel might come back. True, he hadn't seen Castiel for some time, but he had a nasty little habit of popping up where he shouldn't, and it would be Crowley's luck to pick the exact time that their fine-feathered friend chose to drop by.

"I should never have hired those prissy little mutts in the first place." He muttered out loud. How much investment had he lost to them? Oh, he shuddered at the thought. The planning had had to be pristine; luring the brother's here, setting it all up to look like a hunt, then getting them separated. If that stupid ass Larson hadn't fucked it all up in the first place and just killed the Moose when he'd had the chance, all of this could have been avoided. He would probably even have the locations of the other tablets by now, as well. It was all just so…disappointing.

Crowley sighed, and summoned another glass of scotch. He sipped slowly, calming himself, savoring the musky burn that trailed down his throat. The time would come when the Winchesters would be handled. All that was left to do was to wait.

For now, he would just have to put the Winchesters on ice.

**That's all folks, thank you everyone for the reviews and the support. I will probably do some more one shots, maybe some Teenchesters, you never know. But hank you everyone! Have a great time living!**


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